Of Grace and Power
by Dark OriginVTX
Summary: As great as Wisdom, as strong as Courage, so the Grace of Power chooses its bearer. Book two of the Song of Fate cycle, sequel to Of Grace and Courage. AU - H/Hr - Please Review
1. Angels and Oaths

_**To my aunt Rosa for boundless knowledge and friendship**_

_Prologue – Angels and Oaths_

A soft, gentle _pop_ issued from within the shadowy confines of Strathshen keep. The air was chill, the broad stone infrastructure offering very little comfort to God's Seat's eternal winter. Smoky torches hung from brackets at irregular distances within the walls, their flames flittering, dancing in the gentle air which sifted amidst the subterranean vault. Sparks, embers of lit tinder drifted dainty, harmlessly to the coarse stone floor of the fortress, offering a display of dancing shadow before fading with the kiss of the wind.

A faint, agonised moan, as of strangled agony, arose from an alcove set into the stone of the corridor. Embraced in shadow, her body slouched in pain; Bellatrix Black struggled to find her footing as her body lapsed into the silent, weakened convulsions.

Her back was placed firmly against the worn stone wall of the vault, herself using the vast foundations of the great fortress to keep herself erected. Her pride would never bring her to beg for help, though death was not something she truly wished to embrace. Defeated, desperate, with a agonising footfall, so she attempted walking to the healing station.

Her pride was enough to last her three full steps, when, gripped by the embrace of agony, her legs willowed beneath her. Unable to maintain her weight so Bellatrix collapsed, the warrior maiden fell to her haunches evoking an eruption of pain to surge through her. The impact drew a cry of anguish from the Primark as she gripped despairingly to the wall, her pride quashed further the weaker she became. Her left palm clutched desperately to the rent in her carapace armour. Steel, ringmail and linin had been scythed with a vicious, fully weighted smote, drawing a gaping wound within her flank.

Droplets, beads of blood drip, drip, dripped from the tips of her fingers forming a slight pool of precious fluid at the edge of her form. Her body shook, the shock of her wound drawing forth the body's own natural retreat from pain, agony and the prospect of death. Once more so Bellatrix was engaged in conflict, only this time it was a duel with nature's own natural defences and her struggle to maintain who she was. Snatches, fragmentations of her wounding, of her duel with the free blade Granger drifted to the forefront of her mind.

_Bellatrix held Granger at her mercy, the blades of her living weapon casting great rents within the throat of her foe. Long, long since her defeat within the free blades prison chamber, Bellatrix had dreamed of this moment._

_Granger choked, wrenched desperately at the constricting cable which slowly drew her nearer to death. Droplets of blood seeped from Hermione's throat where the cable cut her delicate skin. A vicious smile crossed Bellatrix's lips as she readied herself for the death strike._

_A strangled, bloody cry of agony reached Bellatrix's ears. Glancing up from her foe so had she been prepared to witness the fall of another of these foolish mass of defiances. Her heart clenched beneath her breast._

_Barty Crouch Jr, the Dark Orders most powerful spellcaster slunk in death, the blade of Bellatrix's cousin plunged deep through his back. Crouch's body quivered in its final death fros before the blood traitor drew back his blade, allowing the fallen Crouch to collapse limply at his feet._

_A slight cry of panic tore from Bellatrix as, all around her, the Orc forces they had enslaved began to regain their true sense of self. The massive Orc forces had long been enslaved with the use of witchery, their once vicious, barbaric ways halted with the use of the Imperius curse. Now, without the node to keep their animistic ways imprisioned their Gestalt wavered, grew enraged at the sight of their hated brethren gathered in numbers about them. The Orcs began to rage, to engaged their mass in their own blood duel. Bellatrix, through fear and desperation released Granger, calling the Dark Order into retreat as they sort to escape the chaos. _

_Unbeknowst to her the free blade, Granger had followed her in a hunt for blood ._

Bellatrix issued a groan of agony as she fought to hold onto her precious Highborn blood. Tears flecked her eyes, bright, gentle tears seeping down her fetching countenance.

"Granger…!" Bellatrix hissed, remembering she who had struck this wound, who had broken her so deeply. She trembled, the faint giddiness of blood loss now slowly beginning to claim her. Desperately with one last effort of strength, using the wall to keep herself stable, Bellatrix struggled to her feet. A cry, a scream escaped her lips, a squeal of anguish as her legs threatened to disable once more.

"Sister?" a soft, gentle voice sounded at the edge of Bellatrix's perception. Her vision was hazed, senses askew. Turning so did the warrior maiden sight the silhouette of an angel. Her legs collapsed beneath her as she pitched forward reaching for the entity. Arms enveloped her, firm, tender arms; her last moments, Bellatrix's last sense before oblivion over took her was the fragrance of delicate, crushed pine needles.

* * *

Hermione stooped, stopped to examine the delicate grooves and footfalls that her quarry had set into the earth, her touch wisped across blades of crushed seasonal grass and heather.

Long, deep into the embrace of night she had stalked her prey, chasing them long beyond the streets of the Bridge, out into the verdant, woody outland, into the wild domain, Hermione's domain. Her gaze shifted across the twilight ambiance, sighted the gentle droplets of blood marring a collection of bramble and brush.

Drawing herself to full height, sword in hand, so she stalked towards the brush. Her touch, hesitate, eyes weary so she came to touch the blood. Cold, whoever had come this way into the woodland they had long departed this place of salvation.

"Next time…!" Hermione hissed pledging the oath to the very gods themselves as she turned. The slight, gentle resonance of apparition sounded and the forest grew silent in her wake.


	2. Silver Hand

_Silver Hand_

With tenderness, care and affection Ginevra Weasley touched brows with the slumbering form of Harry Potter. The action was an innocent gesture of camaraderie, friendship and respect instructed to her via the wisdom of the Ranger Tonks. Beads of perspiration flecked Harry's forehead, his flesh heated with the embrace of fever. Ginny drew back slightly, placing a tender kiss upon Harry's fevered brow, herself duelling with the prospect of sadness or attempting to remain strong.

Gently, with a touch filled with endearment, so the young maiden came to sit beside her friend, treated Harry's flesh with a soft, moist rag, itself dampened with ice water from a pail set at the bedside. Her touch was soft, non-intrusive as she cleansed both Harry's face and body, wiping away the effects of febricity. Harry's lower form was clad in soft, clean cotton, while at his flank, themselves stretching from his left hip to the centre of his back, a number of bandages rested. Cleaned and soaked in a healing poultice, so they were placed in an attempt to heal the wound he had sustained at the hands of The Dark Order.

Many a day had past since the company had survived the sacking of The Bridge. Harry had been one of the many wounded during that conflict. Since he had been put to rest and recovery so Ginny had tended to him, kept an ever watchful visual in the hope that the others would regain some sense of normality.

The winter season had long claimed the land, thick snowfalls and choked passes offered little chance of travel, while many of the citizens of the Bridge chose to rally together, ready to fight against the wild Orc forces that had been unleashed into the wilderness beyond.

A slight groan escaped Harry's lips. Softly, Ginny cooed, hoping to ease any of the torment he may endure. Her touch lifted to his face, caressed the fine visage of her friend, felt a smile touch her lips. It was strange but she knew very little of this young man who had once been her betrothed. At a glance Ginny would have been proud to unite her hand with his, such valour and beauty were very much desirable in a wed-tie. But where Harry had taken to a life of combat and rugged living, Ginny had come to realise that she was, in truth, a lady at heart. It would be the same as a Muggle's unity to a Highborn, they were not right for each other.

Slowly the door drew open disturbing Ginny from her thoughts. Turning so the young woman sighted the free blade Granger as she peered into the chamber from about the door way.

"Your supper is prepared," Granger said gently, her words kind, supportive as she opened the door fully, gesturing for Ginny to take her leave. Ginny nodded, thanked the free blade as together they crossed, each taking the opposites position. Ginny glanced back once more, sighted the free blade place a tender hand upon Harry's fevered brow. A slight frown cut her mouth as she turned, leaving Hermione to her visual as she tended the slumbering Harry.

"Grace Bearer," Hermione breathed, exhaled a sigh of sadness as she slowly took in his form. Her words were agonised, wrought with affection and sorrow. It was such a misfortune, for one so filled with life to be struck down with the blood fever, a risk one undertook where engaged in a life of combat. Her gaze turned to the door, flittered conspiratorially as she controlled her breathing. "I shall repay you for your kindness,"

Softly, Hermione once more placed a gentle hand upon Harry's brow. She breathed deep, sealed her eyes closed as she attempted to evoke her gift. The air resonated with the presence of magic. The ambiance grew weighted, sifted as Hermione seemed to swell with power. It started at the tips of her fingers, growing to envelop her entire hand: A nimbus of silver light resonated, filled the air with a flickering, bright luminescence.

Her breathing began to shudder, the nimbus swelled, enveloped both she and Harry as Hermione forced more of her gift into the fallen man. Healing magic was by far the most difficult and dangerous form of arcane skill, only one blessed as she, Hermione was were able to evoke the powers of full healing, many did not even attempt to learn such powers for to heal one such as Harry, one who teetered so close to the edge of oblivion, required the act of defying fate.

Hermione knew not if her actions were to be rewarded, instead she continued to force more of her arcane energy into her friend. Slowly, Harry's flesh lost its heated flush, the beads of perspiration disappearing, Hermione's heart began to beat franticly, she was drifting ever closer to oblivion, if she was not weary she could...

Harry's eyes fluttered gently open. Her heart weak and strained gave a burst of affection as she sighted the bemused expression on Harry's face. Slowly Hermione ceased in her use of magic, her body collapsing weakly. Harry sat up, reaching forth, gathered Hermione into his arms in support. Her breathing was laboured, Harry drew her near. Glancing forth Hermione attempted a smile, a smile of which Harry failed to return.

His arms enveloped her, strong, finally he understood.

"You are...?" Harry questioned of her, though the answer was already known to him. Gently Hermione nodded.

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy, healer of Strathshen Keep lay weary, sleep restricted as she tended to the wounds inflicted to her dear Sister and Primark. Bellatrix Black lay weak, drained of all living energy, a direct result of her heavy loss of blood.

Upon apparition to the medical unit, before bandages and healing could begin Narcissa had required her beloved sister to accept a blood replenishing potion. With weary lips and hazed consciousness Bellatrix had taken the potion before slipping into the depths of oblivion once more.

Narcissa had tended to her dying sisters injuries with strength and courage, feeling the bitter bile of disgust well within her core when she had removed Bellatrix's carapace armour. The wound inflicted to her sister was grave, a great, hulking gash severing skin and muscle and weeping copious amounts of blood. Infection had begun to settle, threatening Bellatrix's life to the greater degree as Narcissa used as much arcane skill she possessed to save her beloved sister.

Now, finally, after hours of surgery and witchery Narcissa could only pray, hoped that to all the gods her skill had been enough. Many of the Death Eaters had tended to Bellatrix's side, her own wed-kin Lucius had long sat with his Primark, offering moral support to both his wife and the fallen Bellatrix. Now, with their chief teetering on the precipice of death all waited, hoped and grieved.

Narcissa felt his presence before he had stepped foot into the medical unit. His power was incredible, vast and destructive, like a wave of irripressable energy, straining the very foundations of the fortress with his presence. Narcissa fell to her knees before him as he entered, his footfall graceful as he approached. Lord Voldemort towered over Narcissa, his fiery red eyes as deep as blood as he took in the fallen form of his most faithful servant.

"My lord," Narcissa breathed speaking in admiration and respect though she dare lift her gaze to meet his. "You honour our fallen Primark with your presence."

"How does she fare?" hissed the Dark Lord. Gently, his black robes sifted across the stone floor as he traversed Bellatrix's sick bed, coming to stand beside his wounded servant. Narcissa swallowed, rising to her feet so as to address him fully, her gaze continuing to sift towards her sister.

"She... She is not recovering, my lord," so informed the healer, her face reflective as the Dark Lord, to her surprise, caressed Bellatrix's wealth of dark hair.

"Leave us," Lord Voldemort breathed. A strangled response left Narcissa's throat, I haste she bowed, hurrying from the sick chamber leaving the Dark Lord alone with her sister. When at last all had left Voldemort finally spoke once more.

"You will recover, my Bella," reaching into a pocket of his dark robes, the Dark Lord retrieved a deep, black crystal: A Grace. Voldemort examined the crystal, sighting the internal vortex of power which existed within the magical stone. Drawing her sword arm away from her body, Voldemort grasped Bellatrix's hand. This Grace, though he had coveted it immeasurable power, was not meant for him. Slowly, Voldemort set the crystal into the hand of the Primark.

The air resonated with an eruption of power. Lord Voldemort held fast to Bellatrix's arm as the ambiance filled with arcane force. Black shadow enveloped Bellatrix, steams of shadows entered her heart as, with a gasp of air so Bellatrix's eyes opened. Her back arched violently from the cot, herself locked in a silent scream of agony.

An explosion resounded, only Voldemort's incredible strength saved his pride as Bellatrix's screams of pain malformed to a roar of power. Lord Voldemort servants rushed into the chamber, sighted the shaded Bellatrix and their struggling lord. Around her the power slowly disbursed, allowing Bellatrix to slowly lower back to the form of the bed. The shadows dissolved, her body quivered as she entered the sleep of acceptance.

The eruption of power, the acceptance of The Grace resonated to both Harry and Hermione. Together they sat, once in slight explanation and deliberation. Words ceased, souls grew cold and their hearts filled with dread.


	3. Gifts and Agonies

_Gifts and Agonies_

"Arise Bella," with a long, slow hiss Lord Voldemort issued his command. Above the slumbering form of Bellatrix Black the Dark Lord extended a long, pale hand. The ambiance shifted with the presence of magic, the Dark Lord evoking his arcane gifts to aid his Primark with her recovery. A slight, silvery hue resonated around the warrior maiden; the Dark Lord drawing her from the depths of slumber back to the conscious world. Languorously Bellatrix opened her eyes, unveiling their deep, obsidian beauty. She blinked, visage wrought with a look of confusion and bewilderment.

"Master...?" Bellatrix's voice cracked, her throat parched as she slowly drew herself up. The Dark Lord fixed his Primark with a long, deep gaze. His hand shifted, turned, offering Bellatrix assistance in her dismount from her recovery bed. Bellatrix's legs were weak, however they did not tremble nor willow with her full erection. Instead Bellatrix held herself with an air of distinction and pride worthy of admiration.

Her body felt drained, sapped of strength and endurance, however, at the depths of feeling, Bellatrix was aware of a power coursing through her veins. An intense, vibrant power. It was this strength, this force to which she clung; feeling the energy slowly spread from her core throughout her entire body, even to the very tips of her feet and hands. Bellatrix sighed, caressed her body, chest, face, her entire form shivering with the intense sense of renewal.

"What...? What has happened to me?" Bellatrix questioned, her query directed to her master. His gaze feasted upon her, eyes drawn into a sweeping glance filled with a rabid hunger.

"You have been accepted," to confirm his words the Dark Lord turned over her hand, drawing back the drape of her slumber garb, unveiling a dark, primal glyph. Bellatrix gasped, the sight of the shaded mark beautiful to behold. The glyph shifted, danced as shadows move with the light. Bellatrix's touch lifted to the symbol.

"You and I are one," so hissed the Dark Lord, drawing back his own sleeve so he exposed the snake and skull symbol he bore on his sword arm. The sigil of power he bore, his right of passage.

"Master..." Bellatrix's eyes welled with tears, tears of passion, of joy. Slowly, seemingly at the edge of perception came a slow, gentle applause. Bellatrix turned, the Dark Lord glanced forth to see his Death Eaters standing in adoration and respect, slowly paying homage to both he and their Primark.

* * *

Harry James Potter arose slowly from his recovery bed, long Hermione had parted from him in her bid to inform the company of his revival. A surge of pain tore through him causing a cry of anguish to escape his lips. He winced, felt for the source of the pain, reaching behind him, his every movement an agony as he touched layers of bandage smeared with healing poultice which bound his affliction.

Forcing down the agony Harry clenched his jaw with grim determination as he attempted to rise. Another stab of pain lanced through him, this time more terrible than the last. The agony was so great, so intense that it drove Harry to his knees, himself now unable to staunch his cry. Harry caught himself on his hands and knees, forced his head into the solid foundation of the chambers hard wood floor. His teeth clenched in pain, a crippling agony as, though force of will Harry summoned his pride and breathed.

Slowly, with force of will and will alone, Harry struggled to pull himself up. He would not cry for help, he would not show weakness to Sirius or Hermione, he would be strong, as they themselves were. Gingerly Harry battled to stand.

With flat-footed shuffles Harry crossed his recovery chamber to the mirror and basin which occupied the opposite corner. Harry sighted his visage, saw the pain evident in his face as he twisted, evoking more pain with his movements as he sort a sight of what it was that caused him so much agony.

All he could see were bandages, bound about his form. Healing poultice oozed from the seams and edges, dry and crusty with age. Harry reached for the knot which secured his bandages. Gently so he worked away the wrappings, sticky medicinal paste pulling at the scabbed flesh of which it sort to heal. Harry hissed, attempting gentleness as slowly the bandages were removed unveiling and a thick, ugly scar.

Harry gasped when at last he was able to see the wound the Dark Order's Spellcaster had inflicted upon him. Broad, as wide as a man's fist, stretching from his left hip to the core of his spine, the scar was jagged, ripped through him like a bolt of lightning drawing a look of anguish and disgust from its bearer.

Tears welled in his eyes, the mutilating affliction terrible to behold. Reached back Harry touched the scabbed skin drawing a slight trickle of blood to appear where his fingers touched the unhealed skin. Harry breathed, drew himself up causing many of the scabs to crack, ooze crimson tears as Harry struggled to comprehend his disfigurement.

With a stronger step so Harry crossed back towards his bed where, at its base, stood a clothing box. Harry lifted the lid itself decorated with a pattern of white on green. Drawing a tunic from the Ottoman Harry pulled on the woollen shirt. Lifting his sword from its station beside the trunk Harry belted the blade to his hip. Another, slight stab of pain wrenched drawing a snarl of anger and annoyance from the young man.

Gently somebody rapped upon the door, seeking entrance. Harry bayed them welcome. Harry turned. Who he sighted entering his room Harry had not expected.


	4. Returns

Returns

"Father?" Harry swallowed, his voice laboured with emotion, a weighted sense of disbelief coupled with a strident sense of shock. A sheer deluge of emotions stormed over him; fighting the tremble which entered his hands, his frame, resisting the temptations of greeting and pleasantries, Harry forced himself to stand strong.

Wiping his mouth in conscious thought Harry deliberated the man before him. Strong, lean, eyes of intense hazel each holding the sense of strength and distinction Harry had always found in his warrior father. His garb was simple, a dark leather vest covering a tunic shirt of pale cotton, severed sleeves exhibiting arms wrought with muscle. His leather trousers were simple peasantry and he wore no sandals, instead boots of supple leather fitted him well, a far deviation from the royal blue robes and ornate armour Harry had grown to associate with this man.

James stood firm, arms held casually at his side, a slight smile crossing his lips. Caution corrupted Harry's emotions, remembering Hermione's explanation on Dream Sighting when he had not witnessed the sight of his father within the vessel of liquid some time past. Harry had believed his father to have past.

Grief of yet to fully develop within the young man, owing to the chaos of the past weeks, only on wagon trips had Harry allowed himself to experience any sense of loss. Yet, here now, Harry's blood father seemingly stood before him, waiting for his sons embrace. The many weeks, months of travel and combat had installed in Harry a sense of caution uncharacteristic to the naïve youth he had once been back on the eastern coast at Ursir.

Gently, Harry laid a precautionary hand upon the pommel of his sword. James appeared to be unarmed, though Harry did not lapse into a false sense of security.

"What were the last words you spoke to me in Ursir?" questioned the young man of the warrior before him. A light chuckle escaped James' throat as he seemed to swell with pride.

"Sirius has installed caution in you, I am impressed," slightly Harry drew his blade, unveiling a flash of steel. James, seemingly in acceptance of his sons mistrust, held up his hands in a gesture for peace.

"Fly my dear son, fly, and know peace." tears welled in Harry's eyes at these words. A cry of joy tore from his lips, heartfelt, emotional, forgoing all resistance, Harry rushed into the arms of his warrior father.

James' arms enveloped his son, held him tenderly. His firm touch found the result of Harry's wounding etched into his sons back. Concerned, James relinquished his hold on Harry as, with a parents fuss, James wheeled his son around to gaze at his wound

"By the gods, Harry," James breathed, sighting the full extent of the damage his son had sustained. Harry grew flush with embarrassment as he smiled and drew away from his father. "You must be in agony?"

Gently Harry nodded.

"It's not pleasant," Harry informed. "But please, father, tell me, how have you come to the Bridge?"

James face grew wrought with dejection. Slowly James stepped past his son, came to stand at the window of the tiny chamber. Glancing out onto the chill, winter strewn street below, the warrior swallowed and began to recite.

* * *

"Has Harry fully recovered?" Ginevra questioned of Hermione. The warrior maiden sat in quiet meditation stationed upon the floor of the room they shared. Her breathing was deep, even, her eyes closed. She seemed not to hear, or was ignoring her room-mates inquiries, her hand softly caressing the cool steel blade of her sword, itself resting gently upon her thighs. Ginny hissed her frustration, her annoyance at this treatment issuing a mew like a vicious feline, her eyes stabbing darkly into the flank of the beauteous warrior. Ginny breathed, swallowed the anger which welled within her as, with a slight curse, she rose from her chair and proceeded to step from the room.

The young Highborn clutched at her hair with annoyance issuing a growl of rage. Her weight rested against the frame of the door as she contemplated her future. Below her the saloon of the inn bustled with rowdy cheer. Ginny could hear Sirius' hearty jesting united with the infectious laughter of Tonks and those they had gathered about them. A slight tear ran down Ginny's cheek, a product of sheer sorrow at the thought of home. A place where people understood her, where people listened. Ginny swallowed. She had been contemplating this moment for many a day now, since she had learned of her mothers existence beyond the sacking of Ursir. Only her friendship, her commitment, her loyalty stalled her from this plan of action.

This was it, no longer could she bare the unknown no longer. Stepping along the walkway of the upstairs landing Ginny found a south facing window. Its fastening was unsecured, the window slightly parted. Drawing back the winter shutters Ginny cast one last gaze back towards the inn. Her mind filled with thoughts, thoughts of family, of Harry. She issued a silent apology, a slight farewell before climbing out into the world beyond.

Stepping out onto the moist, icy roof, itself fashioned with shingled stone supported by layers of wood and thick beams, Ginny breathed, vapour forming in the air with the chill of winter. Her tread was cautious, weary but with only a few steps her footing failed. Catching herself on her hands and knees the ice burned her hands with its touch. Gradually Ginny crawled to the edge of the roof. Climbing upon a trellis secured by the roots of seasonal ivy, Ginny dropped down to the snow covered street below.

The Highborn girl shivered. In her haste to flee so Ginny had failed to don proper garb, herself merely clad in a cotton tunic, worn britches and walking shoes. Her niggling injury, her torn ankle protested violently to the chill as Ginny limped slightly beginning to navigate the roads and walkways.

As the minutes past so she became increasingly lost and confused. Stepping down a shabby, dark street Ginny's thoughts began to darken. Fear crept into her soul. She had wanted to travel to the Eyrie, the Weasley families private refuge. She knew it was to be in the south west of Westenra, beyond The Brace, the restless mountain range which protected western civilisation from invasion from the northern heights of Gods Seat and the rule of the Dark Lord. But how to get there Ginny had never learned nor understood. She hoped that-

"Out and about, little miss?" Ginny wheeled, the voice of someone emanating from a doorway to her right. She drew back, fright resonating from her. Three burly men stepped from beyond a doorway of what Ginny assumed to be a public house. Each were sneering, the middle fellow, rotund, his gaze feasting continued his questioning. "We be looking for a joy girl, little miss, fancy a rumple?"

"No... thank you," Ginny nodded politely, restlessly and turned to head back in the direction to which she had come. The broad man's companion, a slimmer, sinister fellow, rushed forward intercepting her, while the others surrounded Ginny on three sides. Fear clinched her soul, her had drifted to her side, expecting to find her sword. Her hand met with empty air. Ginny cursed low in her throat, marvelling at her stupidity. The burly man who she had addressed her pressed himself upon her form, his hands groping, manhandling. He grinned toothily.

"Please!" Ginny wheeled franticly, trying to avoid the touches from differing hands. "Stop it... Please, Stop!"

Furiously Ginny called on her training. With a stiff punch the Highborn girl slammed her fist into the nearest man's jaw. The impact stung her arm, sent a shock wave pulsing through her muscles, numbing her limb. The force of the punch was so great that he whom she had struck toppled backwards, crashed into an alignment of litter bins. Waste showered his being in an eruption of filth.

Ginny made to run, to rush into the free space the man had left, but her rear foe seized handfuls of her long hair, forcing a cry of pain as she was jerked back. Great tufts of crimson thread were pulled from their roots as Ginny screamed, herself driven to the chill floor of the street.

The large man, her first assailant settled over her, his hand reaching forth to stiffen her screams. Reaching to his side with his free hand the man produced a short, wicked blade. Brandishing the weapon before Ginny the broad man smiled to see fear creep into her eyes. The man lowered the blade to the waist band of her britches where he began to sever the fabric.

"Is this a way to treat a lady?" The words of somebody resonated from beyond the shadows disturbing the assailant in his attempted misdeed. The rotund attacker turned swiftly. Ginny could scarcely breathe, his weight crushing the air from her lungs.

A lone figure emerged from the darkness. He was tall, refined, clad in garb of the finest quality. A long cloak of mottle grey fur was slung about his frame and he carried himself with regal disdain.

Ginny's attacker gleamed in pleasure, the man's eyes settling greedily over he who had disturbed him. Thoughts of wealth and slaughter occupied forefront in his mind as he stood from Ginny brandishing his weapon.

Thoughts of prosperity were quickly removed from the attackers mind when the richly clad fellow drew back the drape of his cloak. Unveiled was an ornate, castle forged blade, curved and fashioned to an onyx black tone save for the lions head pommel which adorned the hilt.

Fear flooded the large attackers face as, with a strangled cry, he turned and fled unwilling to be tested by such a superior blade wielder. His fellow hastened in the train of his friend, relinquishing his hold on Ginny as she huddled back, frightful, concerned. The shadowy figure stepped forth, his face concealed by an ornate hood. Ginny flinched when his hand was offered, but her hero soothed her fears with quiet reassurance.

"I won't hurt you, you're safe now," distrust etched into Ginny's face as she tried to see beyond the shadow of the hood. The man dropped his cowl, the young Weasley gasped.

"You!"


	5. Vision of Fate

Vision of Fate

Sat within the confines of his private chamber so Harry Potter sat in quiet deliberation. Pondering, musing Harry troubled over the story his father had recently told, his mind searching for details, for any sense of consolidation he could grasp.

"_We fought for as long as we could,_" Harry recalled his fathers words, remembering the moment his father had informed him of the fate of their home. In detail his father had come to explain the Weasley's valiant defence of their city.

"_We watched from within the great keep, our once vibrant and powerful city slowly beginning to burn. The forces of the Dark Order tore through the lower villages, rending the buildings, scattering our defensive force and inflicting worse woes. Still the memory haunts me, to remember our proud lord Arthur as he wept for his beloved city. _

_'Sire please, we must leave.' I remember pleading to him, willing him to leave the balcony of which he stood, to take heed and flee with the many who already had left the citadel._

_'I will never abandon my city.' Lord Weasley stated, as noble as a king, as proud as a warrior, as mad as one gripped by grief and sorrow. I understood the words of my noble. Your mother questioned if I too would flee with her and Mrs Weasley. I shook my head._

_'I stand by our lord.' I said with as much pride I could muster. Your mother wished to stay by my side but I could not bare it. It took the last of her strength, I could see that, but eventually she and a number of others fled as you did, leaving I, Lord Weasley and two of his sons to stand firm._"

Harry reflected upon the story, thinking how painful it must have been, not only for those who stayed behind, torn from their families, but also how hard it must have been for those who fled. How terrible it must have been reflecting on that they were leaving their loved ones to face.

James Potter's eyes had welled with tears with the mention of his dear wife, Harry's mother. Himself affected Harry sighted a deep heartache deep within the depths of his proud father at his separation from his beloved. Harry's father had continued to recite, only after he had choked back his tears, wiping them away with the crown of his hand.

"_Lord Percy fought the most valiantly. With a sword of steel and firm guile he came to challenge Lady Black when the Dark Order finally overtook the city. Myself and his father stood at his side, ready to die, to face our enemies with courage and pride. Black had been amused with our defiance, even offering us, Lord Arthur, the Lordling and I chance of surrender. A battle wrought madness seemed to have enveloped Percy that day however and he would not see sense, nor would he parley,_" James shivered, his own memories testing.

"_Percy fell swiftly. Black seemed to show mercy and respect to the valiant Lordling, ending his life without sufferance. It was here that the people of the city accepted their fate. Many surrendered with Percy's death. Arthur and I stood firm but even we understood the inevitable_."

James had failed to iterate any further. It had been here that Harry had stepped forth, placing a comforting hand upon his fathers shoulder which the warrior gripped despairingly. James had left his son alone after this moment, it was here that Harry had come to ponder what he had learned.

A firm, brisk rapping upon the door of his chamber disturbed Harry's musings. Exhaling Harry issued a salutation as the door opened omitting the Ranger Tonks. Harry started surprised to see the concern etched into her gaze.

"Yes?" Harry questioned slightly. Tonks glanced about the room slightly, seemingly looking for something, or someone before acknowledging his question.

"Have you seen Ginny?" Tonks inquired. Harry brow furrowed in thought.

"No, not since I awoke. Why, what has happened?" Harry blinked surprised to sight shock even fear etch in Tonks' visage.

"She has gone!" Tonks exclaimed, turning on her heel and making for the door. Harry, cautious of his injury hastened to his feet as quickly as he could.

"Gone? Where? Why?"

"If I knew that I would not be asking," Tonks snapped, hurrying profusely from the room. With careful steps Harry followed. Outside on the landing Harry started, almost colliding with Hermione who was hastening from the room she shared with Ginny. Their eyes met with quiet question and request. Harry understood, with a passing gaze Hermione hurried past him as Harry hastened back into his room.

Stepping up to the ceramic basin Harry poured a slight amount of water into the depths of the bowl. His hands extended over the pool drawing upon his sense of magic and power.

"_Myrth' Ansel_." Harry exhaled, unleashing the power from deep within him. Drawing upon the magic of Dream Sight Harry attempted to locate Ginny. The pool grew ghostly still, clouding over with a slight, gentle haze. At first Harry's heart clenched, fearful that Ginny's life had been extinguished. But slowly, from out of the haze a slight image formed.

Ginny stood in a shadowy alley absently trading words with a hooded stranger. Harry blinked in surprise. He could see the stranger, his face hooded, clad in lavish finery and rich garb. This single vision startled him. For him to be able to see anything other than vague shadow must mean that this person was known to him.

Suddenly, almost as if the stranger sensed the mystical presence of Harry so the man enveloped Ginny in his fur cloak. The image faded, died, ceased. Harry swallowed, a sense of dread building within him. Swallowing hard Harry hastened to assist his friends in their search.

* * *

"Do you hear that?" so the figure before Ginny drawled. Out upon the chill evening air so the young woman could hear the harsh voices of her companions. Each searched franticly, called her name, seeking, hunting. Ginny swallowed slightly, watching from the shadows of a secluded ally as both Tonks and Sirius hastened past.

Was it concern she could hear in their voices? A concern they had failed to reflect upon her when she had been part of their company. A slight, selfish sense of pride welled within her as she pondered what her disappearance would mean for her former companions. Would they grieve? Would they be apologetic? She cared not for their sorrow, grief or apology as a vicious strength began to well within her.

"I hear," Ginny breathed her voice coming in a soft, gentle hiss. The figure before her nodded, reached forth to cup her face with his hand.

"Do you wish to return?" the figure questioned his eyes dark beneath the veil of his hood. Gently Ginny shook her head. A vicious smile crossed the lips of the shaded figure. Suddenly he wheeled, gazed out unto the night sky. A slight, troubled air resonated from him as, with a whirl of his cloak, so the figure drew Ginny near. The air resonated with power. A slight, gentle crack issued upon the wind as, with the use of arcane power, both Ginny and the figure vanished.


	6. Lost One

Lost One

The hunt for Ginny etched long into the night. Slowly the moon crept across the winter sky, gradually crossing the star strewn heavens until it came to full rise. Now risen to its zenith the pearlescent moon filled the battered streets of The Bridge with its soft, gentle rays. With nothing other than moonshine and instinct to guide her so the warrior maiden Hermione entered the gloom of a grotty side street.

The warrior's instincts flared the moment she crossed from the moonlit high-street to the darkened shade of its connecting lane. She felt it slightly, its presence slowly fading with the erosion of time: the sense of arcane wizardry.

Magic, like every other entity to exist, was connected intimately to the heart of the world. It was a gift both divine and natural and, for one as skilled as Hermione, left vague traces of its use waiting for a skilled hunter to locate.

Hermione's footfalls were gentle, her supple leather boots issuing the vaguest resonance of crushed snow as she slowly trekked the street. Her sword glinted, pale and cold within the dappled moonlight. A slight shaft of moonshine glinted across the unadorned blade of her weapon, splintering into a thousand shafts of light as slowly she followed the trail of magic.

Her rhythm of her heart began to quicken, her breathing however remained controlled and even, herself still following the essence of power emanating from the lane of a secluded alley. Drawing herself close to the edge of the alley mouth Hermione pressed her back to the chill brickwork of the neighbouring building.

The harsh brickwork felt cold, chill against her wool strewn back. Her gaze gingerly ventured beyond the edge of the lane; the presence of magic growing greater with her every footfall. Casting one last gaze at the shadows which surrounded her Hermione wheeled into the alley, sword thrust forth in a show of defiance and defence.

Shadow greeted her. No witch, no arcane wielder. Slowly Hermione ventured within the alley her gaze falling to the trampled snow at her feet. Two sets of prints existed within the mounds of snow gathered deep within. One a dainty set of feet, small and ladylike, the others large and more forceful, a man's footfalls.

Hermione stooped low, her skills of wild craft and hunting now called upon. The resonance of magic flowed about both these sets of tracks. Whoever had used arcane skill had been standing here. Hermione stowed her blade, lifted her sword hand to the sets of prints before her. She allowed her own arcane skill to flow, permitted it to blend with the strangers own trace.

Slowly, from out of the darkness an obscure depiction was formed. Two figures neither ghost nor person formed before the warrior maiden. Hermione watched as the vague outline of Ginny was slowly enveloped in a rich fur cloak and spirited away with the use of apparition. What was most disturbing however was Ginny's lack of resistance.

Hermione swallowed, confused. There existed many spells which could evoke compliance upon an unwilling person, most notably the Imperius Curse which had been used to bend James Potter and the Orcs to compliance within the Dark Order. Once more the depiction exhibited Ginny's disappearance. She focused upon the wielder, his garb rich, lavish and fine. A slight familiarity issued from the figure though his hood was high and obscured his face.

The hour was late, fatigue tired her efforts, drawing herself up Hermione contemplated what she had learned. Knew that Sirius must be told. She nodded and turned venturing back to inform the company of what she now struggled to understand.

* * *

"She left without resistance?" Sirius questioned. His temper had risen with the explanation given to him by the warrior maiden Hermione. He stood beside the inn's expansive fireplace, body arched, the gentle flicker of the flames accentuating the strain and wear he bore upon his visage. "Was she drugged or bewitched?"

"This I cannot say," Hermione stated her deep brown eyes turned towards Sirius as she spoke. "The recall of magic offers only a vague shadow of the previous spells evoked. All I could decipher was the fact that whomever took her was wealthy."

"Tonks," Sirius addressed, the Ranger glanced up, her face once buried in her hands as she struggled to comprehend this sudden turn of affairs. Tonks nodded in acknowledgement, she saw her friend swallow, the burden of leadership growing greater on the broad warrior. "You are her friend, did she say anything? Express any desire to leave us?"

"She..." Tonks faltered, swallowed before regaining her composure, speaking of Ginny's secrets confided within her. "She was struggling to understand and endure our way of life. She is a lady of distinction Sirius, she is used to being the centre of attention. She... she expressed a desire to return to Ursir or travel to the Eyrie."

Her words evoked a deep, dog like growl within the depths of Sirius' throat. He cursed before turning to face the company.

"Tonks, Moony," Remus and Tonks glanced towards Sirius, standing ready to receive orders. "You must travel to the Eyrie. Harry's condition does not offer us the luxury to seek both the elves and locate our run away friend. If you find her I trust you to inform me. be her safe or otherwise, do you understand?"

Both Remus and Tonks nodded. Without a gesture of dismissal each hastened towards their respective quarters in preparation for their coming venture. Harry's gaze sort his godfather. Sirius caught the eye of his godson offered him a vague, quiet smile. Harry nodded. Sirius sighed, wiping his mouth with his hand before turning to face all who travelled with him.

"We leave for Hogmeade come the morrow," Sirius stated firmly. His words came as the exclamation of a bell, firm, strong and laced with woe.


	7. Intrusion Upon Passion

Intrusion Upon Passion

The door to Harry's chamber opened slightly. A glance lifted from the partially slumbering Potter, drew a slight smile across his well cut mouth. His mentor, his friend Hermione stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, her cladding that of travel garb.

"You'd do best to awaken, if you were wise," Hermione stated, offing the young man a slight wink, gesturing to the pitcher of water stationed at the foot of the Harry's wash basin. "Sirius has instructed me to awaken you, by force if necessary."

A dark, almost mocking snigger escaped Harry's lips as he slowly sat up, allowing the winter coverlets to fall from his form. Hermione's eyebrows raised sightly as her fellow warrior tossed aside his fur blanket. Harry lay open, clad in flimsy cotton under-garb which concealed any immodesty.

"I don't feel like waking." Harry jested, coxing Hermione on with an obviously mocking gesture. Hermione's eyes brightened in play; hastily so she gazed into the adjoining passageway. It was clear, free of snoopers or spies.

"You're dead!" Hermione threatened.

"Bring it!" Harry snapped flipping up onto his feet with a display of flamboyance. Hastening to remove her sword belt, so as to even this contest, Hermione rushed her foe with a look of vehemence.

Hermione's shoulder collided forcefully into Harry's abdomen, drawing a gasp of air from his lungs. Harry hastened to regain advantage, flipping Hermione onto her side with a well-learned hip toss. The two wrestled for many a minute before, with a final lunge from Hermione, both she and Harry toppled from the bed.

The game finished with Hermione pinned beneath her protégée. His gaze was that of stunned disbelief, his grip almost loosening his hold on Hermione's upper arms. Realising his mistake Harry regained himself, gazed down deep into Hermione's intense brown eyes.

"What now?" Harry questioned, drawing a squirmish struggle from his defeated mentor. A dark smile played at the tips of the fair Hermione's mouth. Harry blinked, startled at the sudden tease, the sudden promise he believed to sight deep in her eyes.

"To the victor goes the spoils." Hermione cooed, moistening her lips daintily with the tip of her tongue. Harry swallowed, did she? Was this what he believed? Hermione's eyes sparkled playfully, her mouth so sweet, soft lips parted in breathes. Drawing forth his warrior courage Harry breathed and lowered his lips to hers.

His touch was hesitant, innocent himself having never kissed a girl before. Hermione herself pressed her lips deeply to his in a kiss of passion and strength. Harry's heart raced, he began to place more of himself into the kiss. His grip slackened, caressed the strength of her firm yet womanly arms. Harry drew back slowly breaths coming in deep, heated gasps. Hermione gazed forth into his eyes, her own breathing heavy her chest heaving beneath her cuirass of armour. Supporting himself with his hands Harry felt rather than sighted Hermione's legs part, enveloped his waist firm and strong. His sex raged at the thought of taking her, at the thought of lovemaking. Harry felt her consciousness brush against his, felt a deep, intense longing and an overwhelming sadness.

The embrace of Hermione's legs slowly slackened felt her inner request to be released. Harry, despite his desire, cared to much for her to force himself upon her. Slowly he drew back, pushed himself up to full height before offering his mentor an assisting hand. Hermione's hand touched his, each felt a rush of energy, a spark of emotion surge between them something Harry struggled to understand as slowly he drew Hermione to her feet.

Harry attempted to touch her consciousness once more only this time he was met with an iron shield defending her thoughts and emotions. Hermione had never restricted him before but, upon inspection of the wall Harry guessed that whatever his actions had evoked within her she was not prepared to share them with him. Harry drew back slowly, felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness as he pasted the void between his own mind and Hermione's. The fair warrior threaded her hand through her hair in her innocent habit. Harry groaned in longing slightly, beneath his breathe at the sheer eroticism of the gesture. Hermione offered him a slight smile.

"Get dressed," Hermione breathed gesturing to the storage box stationed at the foot of his bed. "Sirius is waiting."

Harry nodded. Her touch came to his face, framed his cheek with a single hand. She caressed while walking past, her eyes never leaving his before she stepped from the room and out onto the landing, waiting.

It was then, alone in his chamber that Harry felt the spur of pain resonating from his back. Harry groaned his body forced into an arch as he struggled to maintain his pride. Harry stuffed the sleeve of his shirt into his mouth, biting down hard as he fought to regain himself.

When at last, after several minutes of agony, Harry finally felt the grip of agony cease. He breathed, his sleeve frayed and moist from his mouths contact. Harry shivered and straightened himself.

Stripping off his winter under-garb Harry donned simple Muggle clothing followed by his cuirass before belting his blade to his waist. Drawing near to the wash basin Harry splashed his face with chill water, his skin still ached from the agony in his back, though his lips continued to tingle with their contact with Hermione's. Lightly Harry touched his lips, he could still feel hers on his, soft and desirable. He swallowed and stepped out after his mentor.

* * *

Bellatrix Black shivered in bliss. The feelings, the emotions, oh they felt so good. Her gaze grew wrought with darkness, testing, probing the connection she now shared with her enemies.

Each, both Potter and Granger, each so captivated with each other, with this delicious admittance of passion that only now had the free blade noticed an intrusion to her emotions. The emotions that had stormed between her two enemies was chaotic, filled with passion, longing, desire and something so much more. The feeling of intimate connection, of emotions so strong that Bellatrix struggled to maintain control of herself and not slip deeper into this enraptured passion.

It had been then that Hermione had slammed up her own internal defences. Bellatrix had not known if it were because of her presence or because of the emotions she felt. However Bellatrix had drawn back slowly, allowed herself to enter back into the hollow of her own mind. She breathed, a vicious, malevolent smile crossing her lips. She now understood.

Her touch lifted to her own flesh, felt it hot, tender with passion. She smiled once more before standing from her seat. The Dark Lord must be informed.

* * *

A contingency of entertainers gathered at upon the stage set at the westerly wall of the Tavern. Four in all, four in number. Settled into a casual decent Harry listened to the haunting melody played by the band. With his final steps Harry turned fully to sight the western stage, sighted the entertainers through a sea of gathered. Each were tall clad in garb of black leather, each blessed with a wealth of hair framing either shoulders or settled at the waist in a cascade of thread. Those gathered within the tavern clapped their hands fervently, hands held high over their heads, the sound that of an army of warriors marching to their next battle.

The beat and sounded once more, the haunting tones of an acoustic melody played with ability, skill and talent. Harry drew near, almost drawn to the music unable to prise his gaze away from the four musicians. Slowly, as if from everywhere and no where at the same time so did he begin to hear the gentle sound of a melodic speech.

A deep, emotional chill flowed through Harry with the dawning of these words. Of strength and honour he sang, of a fathers love he sang and more heroic subjects. With each verse each drew more breathes of emotion from the young man. Thoughts of home, of his father, proud, mighty rich with honour and distinction flowed through him. It felt as though James Potter himself spoke these words passing the torch to his own son. The Grace Bearer: Harry James Potter.

A hand softly touched Harry's shoulder. He turned, sighted his dear father standing firm, strong a slight smile crossing his lips. A smile so different than any Harry had ever seen from him as he gazed upon his son. It was something deeper than simple love, something the young man could scarcely believe: Pride.

"Come, my son, Padfoot waits for us." Harry nodded, reluctant to leave the sound of the powerful singing. But slowly, with only the slightest of coxing from his father Harry settled into a tread. Each donned winter worthy garb: heavy coats and cloaks of subtle grey before together each stepped out into the embrace of winter and the street beyond the saloon.


	8. Confessions of a Mudblood

Confessions of a Mudblood

The morning had dawned its ambiance chill, crisp with the presence of winter. Beyond the comforts of the Tavern the cobblestone roads were slick footing. A pulverised layer of ice clung to road and stone, a result of the heavy traffic endured as the settlers of The Bridge struggled to regain some sense or normality after the attack from the Death Eaters.

Stationed within the housing bays many of the company had gathered. Remus, with a tender hand and shore touch, offered subtle words for the horses as he readied them for travel . Hermione stood, slack and casually against a water barrel, her hip cocked, hand set to her side as she watched the interactions between the company.

Tonks, who alongside Remus had been instructed with the task of locating their runaway companion both had taken to the task plainly, understanding the need of the party; though Harry could see each of them parted with a terrible sorrow. Harry himself felt for the parting of Remus and Tonks. If it had not been for them each the party would still be lost to the wilderness. Remus' wisdom and Tonks' gaiety would surely be missed.

The disappearance of Ginny had thrown the party into a sense of unity, each willing to show the support and loyalty Ginny had failed to exhibit to them. Sirius however had not faltered in his request. The young Weasley must be located. If not for her own personal safety then for the safety of the company. Ginny knew too much, possessed too much knowledge on where they were going and of Harry's condition. This was unacceptable, the thought of her falling into the clutches of the Dark Order, a notion to great to be risked.

"You remember what I said?" Harry overheard his Godfather speaking with Tonks. Together each clung to each other, as deep as parting lovers. A light tear slowly trekked down Tonks' cheek as she nestled herself deep into the crook of Sirius' neck. "If you find her you must inform me."

"I understand, Sirius." Tonks cooed, Harry could hear her voice break, the emotions she bore rending her voice as she drew back her sob of sorrow. She nodded curtly before stepping away from Sirius. Turning she sighted Harry. Tonks trekked towards him extended an arm which Harry grasped in camaraderie and friendship. The Ranger offered Harry a wink her violet eyes sparking with tears.

"Be strong, Grace Bearer." Tonks stated speaking with wisdom and strength. Harry nodded slightly before jerking her forward into his embrace. Tonks breathed deeply Harry himself caught in emotion at this separation. Would he see her or Lupin again? Harry could only hope. Tonks placed a kiss on Harry's cheek before drawing away from him. All gathered gazed upon she and Lupin, each offering the party a gentle smile. Nodding in determination Tonks stepped towards Remus who was waiting at the helm of their wagon. The wagon itself faced west towards their destination. Hagrid stepped towards Harry, the giant himself caught with emotion as the friends parted.

Together the company watched the wagon bear Tonks and Remus away. Slowly so it faded to the embrace of the settlement as an air of dejection hung over them.

"Why Ginny!" Harry questioned low, beneath his breathe. Stepping away from the water barrel Hermione threaded her hand in Harry's squeezing gently offering strength to his dwindling resolve.

"Come," Hermione said gently drawing Harry towards the wagon of which was their transport. "The pain of parting is great, but trust to fate, our friends may return to us." Harry was not willing to allow himself such outrageous hope, not since Ginny's parting. Ginny's loyalty Harry had never questioned before, nor that of his friends and company. But now, since her abandonment Harry had come to question the loyalty of others, silently wondering if any of them would grow unwilling to stand beside him. A thought which frightened and concerned Harry.

As the first to climb into the wagon bed Harry wheeled about offered Hermione a hand, an assistance into the head of the wagon. She accepted gratefully Harry helping her up like the gentleman he had been breed to be. When at last each were stationed upon the cushioned wagon bed, Harry took up the reins of their draft horses and waited for Sirius to begin their journey once more.

When the company finally began to set off Hermione drew off the leather draw string pouch which she had bore across her back. The sack like pouch she settled into her lap of which she opened. Inside were a number of heavy books one of which the Listilan codex which she seemed to have purloined from the Inns minuscule library. Harry chuckled at the theft. It startled him that not so many months past he would have found the theft distressing even outrageous. But even he could understand the importance the book could bare for them and instead left his fair companion to examining to text.

The book, large and broad, although he, Harry was educated would have taken him a number of hours, even a few days to complete. Hermione however had finished three of the large leather bound tomes when the sun had reached its zenith and the company had stopped for refreshment.

"Which is your line?" Harry questioned of Hermione as they sat together, separate from the others, themselves content in each others company. The warrior maiden stalled in her mouthful of stew. She gazed towards him, a questioning look in her deep brown eyes. She chewed and swallowed the action in itself, though simple, bore its own sense of beauty. Hermione washed down her food with sip of wine from a skin before fully facing her companion.

"Which line do you mean?" questioned Hermione. The inquest startled Harry, he believed he had been plain.

"Well," Harry faltered feeling rather foolish. "You are learned. In Ursir only Highborn children can be educated. I must admit I have always believed the name Granger to belong to a Muggle line. Is this true?"

Hermione studied him her heart clenched with secrecy. Her gaze found his. Hermione trusted Harry but so many of her former friends had abandoned her with the utterance of her secret. She feared that this mite also be the reaction faced now. Taking a deep steadying breath Hermione uttered.

"I am not a Highborn, I am a Mud-blood," Harry gasped, startled at the terrible obscenity. The words was a vicious jibe, a word used to describe the dregs of society, the bastard children. Hermione faltered expecting outrage even banishment from the party for her secret. A bastard child held no place amongst such distinguished folk. Harry however merely reached forth and took her hand in his.

"I... I am so sorry." This had not been the reaction Hermione had expected. Her thumb caressed the crown of Harry's hand as she looked into his eyes.

"I am proud of my line, friend Harry," Hermione stated. "I do not ask for sympathy." Harry swallowed, shuffled ever closer to his friend and mentor.

"Was it your sire?" questioned Harry, Hermione shook her head gently.

"My bearer. My mother was of Highborn lineage, my father a common Muggle. How they came to be lovers or of my conception I know not. I just know that my mother gave me my label at my birthing before abandoning me. I can only assume that she was ashamed."

A slight, gentle quiver entered Hermione's lower lip. She shuddered though from the cold or from emotion Harry knew not. Reflecting upon her story a sense of unity gathered deep within his soul. Harry understood the pain of disappointment, the young warrior from as far back as he could remember had often seen the looks of dissatisfaction reflected upon him by his father, or the lectures of etiquette his mother had spoken when he had acted unsuitably to his station. But to abandon a child at the moment of birth. This was an agony Harry failed to comprehend.

A slight, gentle caress, feather light and spiritual touched Harry cheek, he knew it to be Hermione. A air of appreciation flowed through him as Hermione felt his pain for her. His gaze lifted, found her deep brown eyes. Hermione offered him a warm, gentle smile, a smile that so enhanced her beauty that for a moment all he could do was stare.

Hermione pressed two fingers to her lips, which she pressed afterwords to Harry's own. A chaste kiss where an outburst of passion would be inappropriate. Harry touched his lips, saw her smile before together they lapsed into silence and continued their meal.


	9. First Sight

First Sight

Resting deep within the plains of Lefeannul, the elven title bestowed upon the northern realms of Westenra, so the great stone edifice rested. Walls of impenetrable granite, from the bones of the earth itself stood firm and strong its walls a stark, alien grey against the blanket of thick white snow drifts which were the plains of the world beyond.

Framed within a recess opened within the granite Ginevra Weasley stood. The chamber in which she rested was warm, the stark chill of the air warmed by the flames which danced in the fireside.

The colour of innocence stretched on in every direction, treated with a faint icy hue. Once the view had been so different with clear aquatic colours of the ocean greeting her sight as she stood within the window of her home of Ursir. The sights of the harsh white plains installed fantasies alien worlds, beyond the embrace of Westenra to the east of the World Sea.

Ginevra stood clad in garb befitting a lady of her station and blood purity. Gone were the simple Muggle garb which had been pressed upon her as of the result of her harsh travels. Instead a dress of fine silk styled in a tone of rich peace clung to her skin, accentuating her frame, flattered her figure, the shape of her maturing body. A necklace of gold adorned her throat, while her hair hung loose in a wealth of crimson thread. The serving maids had brushed her hair with comb and implement until it shone like like a drape of molten copper. Though she stood firm Ginny's arms embraced her, cradled her, her spirit uneasy as she wondered of the price she would be required to pay for such beauty and luxuries.

The door to her chamber opened, omitting the form of the Libyan who had spirited her away from hardship some days prior. Ginny failed to acknowledge her hosts presence, a neglect of etiquette most unbecoming of a lady of distinction.

Blaise stepped behind his young guest, his touch lifting to the exposed flesh of her upper arms. Ginny shuddered though more from chill and desire than any repugnant sense. Her skin rippled with goose-flesh as she felt him breathe deep her fresh, clean scent. His touch lingered slightly, his thumbs caressing the exposed skin her shoulders. Slowly Ginny began to lapse into ease and comfort. Her eyes closing, body pressed gently back into his. Ginny felt the obvious stirrings of his own desire as he drew closer to the her. Softly Ginny felt a presence brush against her consciousness, feather light and gentle.

The feeling was enthralling; a blissful sense of peace, of ease and weightlessness slowly enveloped her. Struggling to maintain who she was, so were her senses bewitched by the sensations. Ginny begin to remember, remember moments of her journey from Ursir. The memories came to her as gently as dreams, seemed to skip some completely such as her training with Sirius, rested over her eavesdropping upon Sirius and Tonks when they were discussing both she and Harry's fate, and on other, more personal matters.

Slowly the dream state was broken. Ginny blinked the harshness of reality seeming unpleasant and uncouth compared to such a blissful sensation. Attempting to reach out with her mind Ginny desperately tried to recapture the feeling though all she could feel was her own consciousness.

A dark smile crossed Blaise's dark, well cut mouth. Softly his lips found the flesh of her neck, caressed tenderly, his touch manipulative with its skill. Ginny shuddered at the feeling, felt his touch reach for the clasp at her neck which secured her dress to her frame. Ginny felt desire stir as expertly Blaise began to work the clasp. Her sex began to moisten at the thought of him, her skin hot with passion as she stood still, waiting, expectant.

Blaise stopped abruptly, issued a curse of irritation and annoyance as he ceased in his caresses sensing the presence of another. The Libyan wheeled, hand reaching for the blade belted at his waist. Ginny, half mad with lust, shocked by the sudden outcome hastened to re-secure her dress as she turned. Faced who it was that had disturbed this moment.

Her heart skipped at the sight of the intruder.

Tall, young, unbearably handsome with hair of close cropped, burnished gold. The youth stood poised, his own hand resting upon the pommel of the bucket hilted Rapier of which he bore at his waist. His intense grey eyes tunnelled into Blaise's own black gaze. Each stared at each other for many a moment, but it was the Libyan who was the first to quail.

"Yes, High One, is there anything you wish?" so spoke Blaise his voice dark, ominous. The young man sniggered darkly his eyes feasting upon Ginny's beauty her skin raw, nipples erected from both passion and chill as he eyed her delightful charms. The young man offered her a slight, charming smile which evoked a pleasant flush to Ginny's cheeks. Their eyes met deep brown meeting intense grey. The young man wore the Sigil of the Line of Malfoy. Ginny knew of only two people permitted to bear the symbol of the Dragon, Lucius Malfoy and his son Draco.

"Yes, there is something I wish, savage." Draco Malfoy stated. Ginny felt Blaise shudder with fury at the use of the insult. Though many of the Libyans lived within the harsh plains to the east of Westenra, to call a member of the wandering tribes a savage was an insult of the deepest degree. For the Libyans prided themselves on their intelligence, strength and virtue. Draco ignored Blaise's obvious rage and smiled once more at Ginny before offering her his hand to take.

"Come, great lady, someone such as yourself deserves better company than the ravish attentions of this uncouth brute." Ginny swallowed, her heart beating a great cadence beneath her breast. Her eyes met those of Blaise, his gaze sort hers, be it in request or submission Ginny knew not. All the same Ginny stepped by the dark skinned Libyan, her hand threading into Draco's as he turned, his touch warm sending ripples of heat spiralled through her core as she breathed deeply.

Gentlemanly Draco led the young Weasley amidst a maze of corridors, leading her on down into the subterranean vaults of the Keep. The air grew colder the deeper they trekked. Extracting a smoky torch from a bracket in the wall Draco held the fire source aloft, offering the pair a vague sense of illumination. The corridor continued to wind until it ended almost abruptly at an iron bound door.

A massive dead bolt secured the portal, used at restricting prying eyes from what lay beyond. Draco smiled at the confused look seen in his companions eyes. Slowly Draco pressed his free fore and middle finger to the dead bolt, muttered a few alien phrases in the language of power. The heavy dead bolt clicked ominously as the door slowly opened. The young Malfoy gestured for Ginny to enter. She shuddered the chamber beyond dark and choked with age. Slowly, summoning her courage Ginny stepped within. What she saw issued both a torrent of wonder and a deepest fear within her.

The chamber was huge, the ambiance filled with the gloom and grandeur of an ancient cathedral. The skulls of monsters gazed down from mounts set into the walls of the chamber, three on each side, so vast and frightening that Ginny physically trembled with fear as she gazed from head to head.

"The Dragon's of my line," the young Malfoy stated speaking to Ginny's questioning gaze. "Each bore a Highborn member of the line of Malfoy before the war of the banners claimed their lives."

Draco stepped forth leading Ginny onward through the chamber. The flickering flames of his torch gave the monstrous heads of the former Dragon's an ominous, other worldly quality. Slowly Draco led the young woman to exhibit the greatest prize of the line of Malfoy. There, stationed upon a pedestal, a shaft of ever lasting light illuminated the form of a vast stone.

The stone was beautiful formed in a beautiful pale substance, itself reflective of the light so that it looked to be fashioned from rich, polished ivory. Think veins of deepest blue chased the stone offering more beauty and wonder. The stone was the most beautiful object Ginny had ever observed. Her gaze, questioning and awed turned to Draco. The handsome Highborn smiled, a proud, stern gesture.

"The final egg of RusorthChampion of the White, the greatest of dragons." Ginny gasped in rapt respect as she gazed upon the white egg. The tales, deeds and actions of Rusorth and her legendary rider Fendrel Malfoy stretched from as far as the free kingdoms. The founder of the Dragon empire still spoken with awe and fine regard.

"May I?" so questioned Ginny, the first words she had spoken since her trek with Draco. The lordling nodded and stepped slowly away, allowing Ginny to fully enjoy this moment. Ginny reached out gently the tips of her fingers tingling with anticipation.

Slowly her hand reached forth and touched the form of the last dragon egg.


	10. Boundaries Fall

Boundaries Fall

They stood together separated by none other than the no man's land which existed between them. Eyes firmly settled, stances fast and strong. Harry's gaze settled into the eyes of of his warrior father, each so startling in their likenesses except for the depths and shade of their eyes.

James stood confident almost arrogant in his stance, his every other breath emphasised with a flamboyant flourish of his weapon. His son however stood firm, gaze settled upon his foe. Through the peripheral of his vision Harry sighted his friend Hermione. Her reaction was slight, a gentle lifting of her chin followed by the vaguest shadow of a wink. The young warrior waited once more, awaited the breath and the flourish.

It came.

Harry pounced into action. With light, fleet footing Harry charged his warrior father. Be it years of experience with the blade or natural instinct Harry knew not, but James Potter was not caught off guard as his son had expected. A slight twist of his wrist and a toss of his sword resulted in a back hand side cut from James.

The young warrior stalled himself in his charge, his fathers blade so close that a wire thin scratch slid across Harry's carapace armour. James leapt back offering himself more room to manoeuvre. James transferred his weapon from his weak hand to his sword hand. Once more the flourish came. Harry this time stood firm refused to attempt the same attack on a separate occasion.

This time both father and son circled each other, sizing, testing. Together the two warriors engaged in a volley of blows. The air sounded with the clang and resonance of combat. With each impact both Harry and James' swords unleashed a shower of sparks. In a blur of motion Harry lunged, weapon aiming for his fathers open right side. James instinctively parried the blow.

Blades flashed, blows exchanged. As the duel lengthened the elder warrior seemed to grow frustrated with his inability to destroy his sons defences despite his most complex and imaginative manoeuvres.

Finally, with a display of seamless grace Harry arched his body, the blade of his father passing inches away from the young man's form. James, startled at his unorthodox piece of evasion could not defend himself as Harry erected himself swiftly. In one sweeping, casual slice, feigned a disembowelling sever across his fathers abdomen.

James Potter stood, stunned, his very soul rocked by the meaning of the blow. The warrior straightened himself, failed to flourish his weapon, but instead, pressed the pommel his sword to his heart in respect and unquestioned his defeat.

"Who here has trained my son so efficiently?" so questioned James turning away from the duel to face Sirius and Hermione, each of whom stood together observers to this duel. Sirius' gaze drifted to the warrior maiden beside him before, together each stepped forward.

"Sirius and I both trained your son, good sir, we each have contributed to his development." stated Hermione. Exhaling, is breath a vapour to the air, James Potter stepped forth. James knelled before Hermione and Sirius, his sword pressed straight before him in a gesture of respect.

"Each of you have made him a better warrior than I ever could, I offer each of you the deepest of gratitudes." Hermione's cheeks grew heated with rouge. Gently her hand came to rest upon the pommel of James sword. She spoke softly.

"Your words are taken with appreciation, Sir James. I thank you."

"Stand up, Prongs," barked Sirius gruffly but not unkindly. "You need not humble yourself before me, we are friends. I only did as any friend would do."

Slowly, humbly James Potter erected himself. With a loud clash of hands James and Sirius grasped hands in a display of friendship. Hermione stepped by the two warriors each caught in their own camaraderie. Harry's eyes followed her saw her come to stand by the edge of the camp, away from the wagons which had been formed into a crude circle to offer shelter and a breaker from the winter winds.

Hermione's gaze met Harry's. Motioning with her forefinger, little more than a twitch she gestured for him to follow. Harry sheathed his blade and stepped after her. Hermione lead him away from the camp site, for what a reason Harry could only ponder.

The warrior maiden finally settled, her back pressed against the form of a large evergreen. Her stance was open, right foot arched back casually, weight rested against the form of the tree.

"You did well." Hermione breathed her breath drifting forth at the sheer chill in the air. Harry felt the stirrings of desire once more, felt his body grow hot at the utter amorousness of her stance, the allure of her beauty. Once more Hermione gestured for him to approach, this time with her eyes. Desire fuelled his actions, he stepped close, closer to her than he would have ever dared before. Hermione moistened her lips with a lap of her tongue, the result sending another wave of desire racing through the captivated Harry.

His touch lifted to her face, cupped her cheek ever so gently. A slight sorrow entered Hermione's eyes. For a moment Harry was tempted to open the connection they shared, to understand deeper the meaning behind the emotion. He refrained however. Softly Hermione pressed her lips to the inside of his palm, her own hand coming to touch his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his armour.

"I..." Hermione's voice broke, seemingly with effort as she fought to express herself. "I can't forget your kiss."

Those tiny words destroyed any boundaries which seemed to have been separating them. Gently, without words, Harry lowered his lips to hers, his breath teasing softly, gently and delightful. Together both he and Hermione closed their eyes, allowed all emotion to ensue.

Their lips met in an eruption of passion.


	11. Orders and Songs

Orders and Song

The great stone walls of the hall of Sonata, the vast fortress once the centre of the Dragonic Empire, creaked, strained and groaned, the ambiance shifting with the very presence of the Dark Lord's incredible power. The huge edifice in which he sat, surrounded by works of the greatest artizans and master painters his rule could employ, all failed to chase away the chill and icy presence of the Snake Lord's demeanour.

The Dark Lord Voldemort settled into his high-back throne, itself chased with the finest threads and layers of gold, ivory and black onyx. Though he sat still, the only sign of life the gentle breathing of his beloved Nagini as she rested, the Dark Lords touch drifted aimlessly across the form of the gargantuan serpent. The beasts form coiled around the base of the throne like an elongated sentinel, the snakes angled head resting in the lap of its master.

Slowly, the door of the great hall opened. The sheer sound of the vast wooden doors grating against stone filled the hall with a strident resonance. The noise was so great that the once slumbering snake lifted her head from its place of rest and hissed its annoyance.

The Dark Lord soothed the snakes agitation with just the slightest of words as Lord Voldemort glanced towards who it was that had entered his presence. The Dark Lords lipless mouth curled into an abomination of a smile as he slighted his most faithful servant, Bellatrix Black, stride with confidence into his presence.

The Grace Bearer knelled before her lord and master, lowered her head, sword arm resting upon her knee as she spoke the oaths of moment required in meeting with the Dark Lord. Seamlessly, with a monstrous grace Lord Voldemort erected himself, thin arms held open as he stepped to embrace his favourite.

Bellatrix stood, allowed the Dark Lords arms to envelop her slightly, gently. The feel of his cold body neither repulsed nor was repugnant to her, instead the embrace filled Bellatrix's heart with pleasure and ecstasy.

"My dear Bella, your beauty grows with each new moon." The complement was a pleasant one, a complement which pleased Bellatrix so greatly that the warrior felt herself flush, pleasure heating her body, a stark contrast to the sheer chill of her lord and masters form.

"My lord, your words mean more to me than even praise from the gods themselves," Bellatrix said gently her very soul longing for closeness though she restrained her emotions, in the hopes that her simple stance would not to show insult. "Please, how may I serve you?"

The Dark Lord drew back, his blood red eyes meeting Bellatrix's as once more he smiled.

"It has happened, has it not?" so inquired Lord Voldemort. Bellatrix swallowed, her apprehension paramount.

"It has my lord, but not to one of our own, I do not believe the bearer can be trusted."

"This... is but a minor inconvenience," so hissed the Dark Lord his tone cool, icy as serpentine as the snake which circled his throne. Turning so Lord Voldemort stepped back towards his great seat. "I shall see to this matter personally. But for now I have a duty for you to preform, by dear Bella."

"Of course master," so stated Bellatrix lowering her head in acquiescence. "Your very wish is but mine to enforce."

"And enforce it you shall," Lord Voldemort hissed his the drag of the great snakes body sounding like rending stone with their reverberation amidst the great hall.

"Take a legion of our finest warriors and destroy the the Restriction of Miserth. I seek to expand our boarders to the south of Westenra." The Dark Lord instructed his gaze fixed on Bellatrix. "I shall give you a week. Complete this duty and my gratitude will be yours. Go Bella, you have your orders."

Bellatrix pressed her sword hand to her heart in acknowledgement. The sound of her carapace armour resounded as her fist struck steel. Bellatrix nodded and stepped from the hall feeling the eyes of her master upon her as she slowly departed from his presence.

* * *

The elven village of Hogsmeade seemed no closer despite the many hours, many days of travel forcing the endurance of the the harsh winters and snowfall that plagued the roads of the south of Westenra. The cold grew greater each night, the companies meagre fires managing to scarcely offer comfort as together the five companions struggled to survive. Though they travelled together both Harry and Hermione failed to find comfort with each other and increase their budding romance, for reasons Hermione had stated with her fears of rejection from the company, owning to her Mudblood heritage and Harry's Highborn station.

On the even of the ninth night of travel the giant Hagrid relieved Harry of his watch with many a grateful word and shiver from the young man. Climbing into the rear of the wagon he shared with Hermione Harry sighted the warrior maiden curled beneath a layer of blankets upon the empty floor of the wagon hut. The young man could sight that his lady love lay awake owing to her tremors and reaction to of cold; for he knew it would be difficult for most to find slumber amidst these dreaded conditions.

A light smile played at his lips as, with a parting with his armoured cuirass Harry stepped towards Hermione. Softly, with a sweep and drape the young man enveloped the slumbering woman with his own layers of coverlets before lifting the drape of the layers to come and snuggle next to his warrior love.

Hermione offered no protest, her hand threaded with his as Harry's arm draped over her pulling her close to his body. Harry, felt the tremors of her body, though still present, ease with the warmth of his own form pressed against her. Through need and sweetness Harry lifted her hand to his lips where he kissed the crown of her hand tenderly. Hermione's touch came to his, felt her press deeper into his body as slowly Harry closed his eyes.

The feel of her made the harshness of their travel seem distant and unimportant. Gently as the haze of sleepiness over took them so each heard in a strange, ethereal tongue, the sound of soft, gentle song. A night lullaby slowly ease the lovers into dreams.

_Ank sauzu shusu neussoins fir aunishur kauw,  
__I shonr I rniw whaus wie'zu luun ausronj mu,  
__I shonr wie rniw whaus I'zu luun srwonj si sauw,  
__I phrimosuk I wielk nuzur luauzu wie,  
_ _Thun wie shielk aulwauws rniw,  
_ _Whuruzur wie mauw ji,  
ni maussur whuru wie auru,  
_ _I nuzur woll lu faur auwauw_


	12. The Evil Within

_The Evil Within_

With the new day dawn Harry Potter slowly roused from slumber. He awoke to a vision, the sight of his dearest Hermione before him, caught in the depths of dreams a light smile playing at the edges of her mouth. She seemed to have turned in her slumber, for Harry remembered that they had laid chest to back in the embrace of innocence. Now Hermione faced him, a veil of dark, chestnut curls obscuring a quarter of her visage.

Harry reached forth, his touch gentle as he softly brushed back the drape of her hair. Hermione stirred slightly, the lids of her eyes slowly lifting so as to unveil the startling beauty of her brown orbs. No words were spoken, no greeting of awakening passed, instead they drew close lips touching in a chaste kiss.

A surge of agony raced through Harry. The young man growled in agony drawing a startled look from his lady love.

"Harry...? What is it?" so questioned Hermione confused at this sudden agony that had claimed her lover. The pain was too great, too intense for him to utter words. Instead he gestured franticly to his back. Understanding Hermione extracted herself from the fur coverlets they had shared and motioned for Harry to lay flat. With difficulty the couple managed to remove his woollen winter garb and unveil the wound he had sustained at the hands of the Death Eater.

"By the gods..." Hermione breathed the sight before her horrendous to behold. The wound itself had healed perfectly offering nothing more than a wide, jagged scar startlingly pale against his already clear skin. But it wasn't the scar that horrified Hermione, it was the evil energy she could feel resonating from the affliction.

"Lay still my love," Hermione breathed. With modesty so the warrior maiden straddled her lovers form. The action drew a groan of pain from her lover. Hermione cooed, hoping to offer comfort as she attempted to understand the wound and its secrets. Gingerly, with as much tenderness she could evoke, so Hermione began to touch the affliction.

The evil within the wound struck out, attempted to use its arcane strength to drive the warrior away. Summoning her power so did the mark upon her shoulder begin to glow. Her palms glinted with a light nimbus of energy as Hermione began to evoke the power that was hers to wield.

Softly, so Hermione began to chant, a sweet, gentle melody a shallow muttering. Harry groaned deeply as his lady love began to draw the evil from him like poison sucked from a wound. Perspiration dotted Hermione's brow at the sheer effort of her undertaking, Harry, through courage and pride failed to scream despite the evil within his wound evoking the greatest of agonies. Instead Harry bit hard against his cotton shirt as tears of agony streamed from his eyes.

The duel between Hermione and the wound raged. Her powers, though vast and formidable struggled to maintain an even balance with the power of the wound. Her entire body began to tremble, the air resonating with the power of arcane force.

The entire wagon exploded with an eruption of power. Hermione screamed, tossed into the air, elevated away from her love as a vast green hue resonated in the air above Harry. Hermione looked forth, the energy she had drawn from him taking the form of a vast serpent.

"Harry!" Hermione screamed his name, attempted to lunge for her love. A shield of energy repelled her, drove her back into the wall of the wagon hut.

"_He is mine_!" so hissed a dark, malevolent voice. A great torrent of wind billowed between entity and healer, billowing Hermione's hair, the air flickering with green and black streams.

The wagon exploded with an outburst of power. Hermione, form and self tossed across the frozen camp site of the party. The great, ethereal serpent rose high, as great as the fabled world snake, rising to kiss the very heavens with its vile form. Hermione, sheer terror tainting her soul, watched as he lovers form was consumed by darkness.

The party, all gathered, grew stricken with fear as they struggled to understand this startling phenomenon. The entity exploded shadows and shade entering Harry once more before disbursing.

"Harry...? Harry!" Hermione cried crawling to her feet, hands clawing at the earth. Hands attempted to restrain her, but with force she fought them off.

Harry lay amidst the ruins that had once been their wagon. He writhed and shook in fits and seizures as he lay. Hermione cradled him, his head pressed tight to her bosom as she sort to give him strength. Tears streamed from her eyes as she struggled to accept what she had witnessed, of what she had seen.


	13. Tidings of War

Tidings of War

Reduced to only a pair of wagons so the party resumed their travels. Set up within Hagrid's travel hut so a small sleeping station was erected up to allow the stricken Harry time to rest and recover. The free blade Granger had taken it upon herself to sit stationed beside her young lover, tending to his needs, ignoring essentials such as sleep and duty all in the hopes that Harry would recuperate.

Several days had past prior to her attempt to draw the evil from Harry's wound, several days since Hermione had slept or even eaten. Physically, mentally so Hermione felt the touch of fatigue slowly enter her form. With a will of iron, with a determination sired from years of conditioning, so Hermione forced herself to remain strong, though she was unable to fight that stages of light sleep which did claim her. This was an enemy the warrior maiden could not best physically, for it was the will of nature that she find sleep no matter how deeply she fought the inevitable.

It had been Hermione's refusal to leave Harry's side, only with her determination, her desire to remain beside her companion, that the company truly came to understand the emotions that had past between the two young lovers.

Settling at midday of the fourth day so did James Potter enter his sons sick chamber. As expected James found Hermione stationed beside his stricken son; eyes sore, inflamed and bloodshot from tears and a collection of sleepless nights. The warrior maiden was neither fazed nor flustered from the entrance of the warrior male; instead her senses, which were slowly diminishing owing to the abuse she was currently placing upon her reserves and spirit, were still serviceable enough to inform the young woman of the warriors coming the moment James drew near to the entrance of the travel hut.

"How does he fair?" questioned James his voice low, haunted. Hermione turned to face him. Her beauty that had once been so captivating now rested marred upon her visage. Dark circles clouded the lower region of her eyes while her hair remained un-cleansed despite their latest stop at a travellers hostel a number of days prior.

"He neither recovers nor dwells deeper." Hermione stated her voice breaking with emotion. It was her guilt which tainted her so greatly, how could her good deed go so terribly wrong? She had attempted to offer relief to her dear one, instead all it had done was injure him far greater.

"Is it his Grace?" so inquired James, speaking of his and the companies suspicions behind Harry's affliction. "Is it the Dark Lord?"

"It is the Dark Lord," Hermione spoke with wisdom. Her words evoked a gasp from James as the warrior maiden turned to face her lovers sire. "But of what degree I know not. The wound he had sustained at The Bridge is infected with evil. His Grace is not the reason for his affliction. All but one of the three Grace's are pure."

"How can you know this?" questioned James his tone fierce though lowered with tenderness and respect for his son. "Weren't the Grace's forged by the Dark Lord to serve him?"

Hermione shook her head.

"The Dark Lord had nothing to do with the forging of the Graces. They were divine gifts, given by the High Ones as tokens of the three traits of of the mortal soul. I know this because I have been educated in Gracelore, owing to my own connection to one itself."

James swallowed.

"You...? You are a Grace Bearer?" Once more Hermione nodded. Drawing aside the collar of her winter garb so the warrior maiden exposed the mark upon her shoulder.

"I bear Wisdom," Hermione stated and returned her gaze back to her beloved. James, startled swallowed his apprehension and came to sit on the opposite side of his son. A grimace of agony flashed across the young man's visage as James placed a hand upon his sons brow.

"Hermione," so spoke James. The warrior maiden glanced up, eyes sore and weeping. "Please, you must rest, you are no use to Harry so drained and fatigued. I will stay with him, I promise."

Of all the company Hermione trusted none more than the sire of her beloved to keep him safe. Despite her desire to remain, to protect, to heal, the warrior maiden relented, knowing that the warrior spoke with true wisdom. Hermione swallowed. Her body ached, strained as she slowly erected herself. Stepping from the wagon Hermione failed to acknowledge any questions directed to her from the rest of the company her need for sleep to great to ignore any longer.

Grasping a blanket from a warming post near the companies camp fire, Hermione wrapped herself within the coverlet and proceeded to climb into the rear of Sirius' wagon. The warmth enveloped her as pleasant as Harry's loving arms. Gently Hermione lowered herself to the wagon floor, allowed sleep to claim her almost instantly, her dreams troubled and laced in darkness.

The hours of sleep which she had taken were unknown to Hermione when the young maiden awoke. It was not a natural return to awakening, instead the clamour of many hooves, footfalls and the sound of wheels and wagons had pulled her from slumber.

The wagon within which she slept stood halted, the clamour too great for their simple party to resonate. Drawing herself out from the rear of the wagon Hermione gasped at the sight which greeted her.

Hundreds, thousands of warriors traipsed the rough, worn road followed by a number of wagons and beasts of burden. Each were garbed in full armour, the captains and generals garbed in exquisite plate while the common solider wore cuirass' of steel and carried swords of crude iron. Hermione turned to face the company each of all, save for Harry who still lay stricken, gazed in awe at the sheer number of forces which had driven them off the road.

"Where are they going?" Hermione heard Hagrid question to Sirius.

"I don't know but a force this great would not trek the road for nothing other than war."

"They head north," James breathed. "Do you believe they march on Sonata?"

Hermione sniggered darkly.

"A force this small would be crushed in seconds by the Dark Lord," so stated Hermione her words ringing with truth. "No this is a minor defence force they travel as aid not for invasion."

A lone rider raced along the outer perimeter of the advancing force. The company hailed the rider who drew his mount to a halt, the warrior gazed at each of the company his air one of interest.

"Where is your heading with such a force, good Knight?" so questioned Sirius of the rider. A helm of iron obscured the riders visage but with ease and swiftness so he removed the restricting protection to gaze unhindered towards the gathered party. The rider was was tall, fetching with a rough, warriors beauty. His hair was of golden auburn, his visage was dusted with a number of freckles making him appear younger than suspected.

"We march to the Restriction of Miserth," so the rider informed. "The Snake Lord seems determined to leave the north lands and march on the free states. Bellatrix Black and her Death Eaters have all but desolated the city, we seek to reclaim it and hold the Dark Lord at bay."

An air of dread settled over the company at this the most dreadful of news. The company knew that were Miserth to fall then all of southron Westenra would be open to invasion. The lone rider gazed curiously across the company seemingly taking in their arms, garb and armour.

"You travel well armed for a simple traders trek, what be your business on the road?" so questioned the rider. Sirius frowned at the question. He barked.

"We seek the elven settlement of Hogsmeade, out business is our own." The young rider offered the party a slight smile holding a hand up in a gesture of acquiescence and respect.

"Our next rest stop is Hogsmeade, you'd be best to travel the silk routes, our force is bound to make travel more difficult upon the road." so the rider advised.

Off in the distance a horn sounded, a call from deep amidst the advancement of the travelling soldiers. The rider offered the company a nod before replacing his helm and racing off after the horn blower. The company gazed at each other, startled at the tidings of war they had just received.


	14. Confessions of Love

Confessions of Love

After many long days of travel, of peril and darkness, finally the elven village of Hogsmeade at last embraced the company. Though it had been days of long difficult trek, through winter ice and darker woes; the company allowed themselves to hope that soon answers to an innumerable number of questions would soon be given.

Drawing Harry down from his sick chamber the giant Hagrid cradled the young man within his massive arms. Around them a mass of fair elven folk flocked the streets, many of them slim, slender but strong and graceful as they exchanged gossip or conducted business. Many of the elves wore soft, floaty garb seemingly fashioned from silk or some other delicate fabric, though they all seemed unfazed by the sheer chill of winter. Slight, snow tipped buildings constructed from stone, earth and wood each aligned neatly and humbly a grand mosaic paved thoroughfare.

The elves eyed the strangers with keen, twiddled eyes, eyes which many of the company found alien and beautiful. Accustomed though the elves were to visitors many of them endeared to the habits of their ancient race: secretive, reclusive. Many of the elven race choose to inhabit the forests of the south and east of Westenra than the midland village of Hogsmeade. Though the population of the village was still great in number.

In her haste for aid Hermione stalled a elven youth in his hurries. With the pausing of the young elven so the young warrior began to speak in a strange, fair tongue. The other members of the party gazed on in wonder as Hermione and the youth exchanged words. The tones, trills and syllables of the language they spoke were both beauteous and enchanting. Though Hermione's tones were fair the youths responses was low, soft and melodious, pleasant and enthralling to listen too.

Of all the temptations the company had endured, to the others who were unacquainted with the elven tongue each found the youths words wise and meaningful. As they stood all they desired was to hear the voice of the youth speak, they longed for it deeply, greater than any vast fortune, and when the youth stopped talking and pointed towards a break in the buildings, those of who had been enchanted by the youths tones so did not remain unchanged.

Hermione turned, a great, hopeful smile brightening her visage. She gazed at her companions, all possessed dazed, dreamy expressions neither present nor missing. With slight coxing so they began to trek towards the break of which the elven youth had instructed. Though the others pricked their ears and listened to many of the voices which enveloped them.

The road led to a slight, small building fashioned from wood and thatch. An ancient man rested within an aged rocking chair, his wealth of silvery hair left to flow while his vast silver beard he ad tucked deep within the band of his belt. The ancient gentleman sat absently scanning the script within a tome.

The aged man lowered his book, eyed the company with bright, strikingly blue eyes.

"Bring him in." the elderly man stated without waiting for their introduction or request. Hagrid blinked, startled at the abruptness of the gentleman. The company looked to Hermione who nodded and gestured after the ancient man. With a groan of wood and a stoop at the doorway Hagrid carried the stricken Harry into the chamber beyond.

All but Hermione gasped in awe at the sheer wonder of the chamber into which they had stepped. Trinkets and oddities, commodities and collectables all lined a number of shelves upon the wall. Some whistling or puffing clear smoke into the air, others upon tables clicked and span in seeming excitement.

A large, empty bird perch rested beside a grand single armchair while a long line of rope stretched across the ceiling pegged with a great number of socks.

Hagrid laid young Harry down face down on the bed as instructed by the elderly gentleman. An air of hope and dread settled over the company as the elderly man touched the wound within Harry's back with tenderness and wisdom.

"What has happened?" So questioned Hermione gesturing to the wound which had stricken Harry. Her tone was broken, strained by pain and heartache as the elderly man turned, his expression dark and grave.

"This young man had been struck by a Horcrux, a dark, evil weapon forged from the very soul of the Lord Voldemort."

Many gasped, some shuddered reflexively at the mention of the Snake Lords name. Hermione lowered herself to her knees besides Harry, gently she took his hand in hers and whispered words unheard by the others even the ancient healer.

"Can you heal him?" questioned Sirius, almost pleading with the old man. The healer breathed deeply.

"It is complicated, a fragment of the Dark Lords soul now resides within this young man. I can offer him comfort but to heal completely would only cause him far greater suffering."

"But can you heal him?" so pleaded Hermione, glancing up fiercely from Harry's side, her tone laced with desperation. "Please I... I love him."

The elderly man offered the young woman a slight smile. A number of mutters, of whispers and unease followed Hermione's confession. Gently the aged man eyed the young woman intently.

"Love, is the most powerful form of magic available to all. If you love him in any way near I believe you do, good lady, then your assistance shall be needed."

The ancient man gazed at the rest of the company. James and Sirius wanted to question Hermione of her confession, however each knew what was to be done. Each left the young warrior with Harry and the elderly gentleman. Each hoped, each prayed as with their absence the treatment began.


	15. Awakening

Awakening

Many moons arose, many dawns did fade and still despite the best efforts of both Hermione and Albus Dumbledore young Harry James Potter remained ensnared within the grip of the Horcrux.

His wound, the visible white scar which once had rent the beauty of his form, had long been healed to near nothingness, but the healer Albus was hesitant to attempt any treatment to the real threat for fear of the young man's life.

Moral within the company reached lower and deeper into dejection the further Harry remained asleep and stricken. On the eve of the first month of affliction news reached the village of Hogsmeade that the Restriction of Miserth had fallen. Tales of a power greater than any legion, of a force so strong that it swept warriors aside like leaves upon the wind, reached the ears of the elves.

Fear and discord settled into the hearts of the elven folk, many soon fled the village seeking the protection of the forest home land and the safety of The Brace. The healer Dumbledore however was not one so easily stricken by fear.

The evening grew chill though the warmth of Albus Dumbledore's cabin was comfortable and pleasant. Tears had long dried within the eyes of the fair Hermione though she knelled beside her afflicted love. Comfortingly Dumbledore handed the young warrior a cup of strong, well sweetened tea. Hermione accepted the cup gratefully, sipped at the heated beverage. Warmth swept through her chasing away the chill of depression which had settled over her as she offered the elderly gentleman a slight smile.

"What is it that is stopping the healing?" Hermione questioned of Dumbledore. His eyes drifted to the large bird perch which rested beside his plush armchair.

"I need tears of the Phoenix to balance the potion I have concocted. Without them the potion will kill this young man." Hermione swallowed another mouthful of tea before turning back to her love and friend.

The bell above Dumbledore's door chimed and together both Albus and Hermione turned to sight James, Harry's father standing in the doorway. His gaze was questioning, form slumped with anguish. Hermione shook her head in James' direction, confirming the question behind his eyes.

"Hermione?" James spoke, Hermione stood fully faced the warrior. "Me and the company must speak with you."

The warrior maiden understood. Setting down her tea so Hermione grasped Harry's hand from where it rested beside him. Pressing her lips to the crown of his hand Hermione's eyes rested upon him once more. A flood of affection and anguish enveloped her before she turned, following James out of the healers cabin.

James led Hermione across the snow tipped thoroughfare towards the inn and public house wherein rested the company. A faint flurry of snow sifted from the heavens as James opened the door for Hermione in true gentleman fashion. Hermione stepped within and was instantly bombarded with the silence which hung over the saloon. It was almost as if Hermione had lost her sense of hearing. No cheer, no rowdy nature which, she assumed, always came with the sallow of a public houses. Instead the company and only a handful of other patrons sat situated at differing tables. A stark ambiance of silence settled between them.

Hermione stepped up towards the bar where the innkeeper attempted a smile though his elven beauty was marred because of his air of depression.

"Everclear, please." Hermione requested of the innkeep. James ordered a round of ale for the gathered company and, with Hermione's assistance carried their drinks towards the companies table.

"It's like a graveyard in here." Hagrid grunted speaking the truth that could be told of the ambiance.

"It's the fall of Miserth," Sirius stated speaking of his suspicions. "Southron Westenra is now open to full invasion from the Dark Order."

"How fares my son?" so questioned James of Hermione. The warrior, as the rest of the company also, had come to visit Harry a great number of times. However each understood that Hermione had scarcely left his side. Hermione swallowed a swig of her potent drink before answering.

"He is stable," Hermione declared truthfully. "Albus dares not attempt healing his true affliction before he knows Harry has a chance of survival."

"Hermione..." James swallowed, gazed uneasily towards the female warrior. Hermione turned fixed him with a firm, intense gaze. "About your confession?"

"Yes?" Hermione breathed, her expectations the worst but prepared.

"Do you truly love my son?" the warrior maiden was silent but nodded her head slightly in acknowledgement. James lay a precautionary hand upon Hermione's own. He breathed.

"Does Harry return your feelings?" both Hagrid and Sirius snorted in derisive mirth. James frowned before turning to face his companions.

"He can scarcely keep his eyes off her, Prongs," Sirius spoke issuing a vague flush to Hermione's cheeks. "Surely you've noticed?"

James frowned, a trace of humour settling into his visage.

"I am not blind, Padfoot," stated Harry's warrior father. "I am merely trying to stick to formality."

Hermione buried her head in her hand a slight snigger escaping her throat at the jesting between the two friends. The giant Hagrid then spoke.

"If these two young people do love each other as deeply as we believe, then should they not wed-tie while we still have freedom?"

Hermione choked on her mouthful of Everclear, coughing and spluttering so the warrior maiden attempted to speak drawing gazes of amusement from her three companions.

"Wed...? Wed-tie?" Hermione blanched a trace of true shock evident in her voice. "Surely that is not?"

"Do you not seek a union-tie, Miss Granger?" so questioned Hagrid, Hermione's breathing began to hitch.

"I... I've never... I mean you don't..."

"Is there anything restricting you, miss Granger? Have you committed a great felony or misdeed?" inquired James, Hermione buried her head in her hands a howl, of sorrow escaping her lips.

"None that is my own doing?" Hermione breathed, a look of confusion settled over the company. Hermione breathed deep, lowered her hands before gazing at her Highborn associates.

"I... I am a Mudblood," Hermione stated refusing to feel ashamed of her status. "It would not be proper, a union-tie between me and Harry."

"And the reason is?" questioned James drawing a blink look from Hermione.

"My... I am not a Highborn or Muggle. I am-"

"Are you aware that Harry's own mother was a Mudblood?" Hermione gasped, hope seemed to fill her soul at the mention of this sudden statement.

"You...? You mean?" Hermione dared to believe, her question hanging.

"We see no dishonour in you, as the head of the Potter line and Harry's father I would be proud to accept you into our family."

Joy, sheer utter euphoria settled into Hermione's soul as tears seeped from her eyes. Never had she believed she would ever union-tie with anyone owing to her status as Mudblood. Now, here before her a family was willing to accept her amongst them.

"We must question Harry of his feelings, when he recovers." stated Sirius drawing nods of acceptance from the company. Hermione still rocked by the trace of shock which had settled over her. She took one last swig of her drink before standing.

"I... I'm sorry everyone, this... this is very unexpected I'm slightly... stunned." James stood from their booth, opened his arms wide and drew Hermione into his embrace.

"If Harry agrees I will be proud to call you my daughter." Hermione sobbed into James' shoulder, tears of joy and disbelief moistening her cheeks.

Slowly Hermione drew herself from the warrior's embrace. With a single glance back Hermione left the inn for the chill of the street. The icy wind stung her cheeks though nothing could darken the great smile which crossed her face. Stepping into Dumbledore's cabin Hermione blinked at the sight which greeted her: A large, red and gold phoenix had settled upon the once empty bird perch beside Dumbledore's chair. The bird was magnificent, a true epitome of beauty. Dumbledore sat within his large arm chair, gestured for Hermione to approach.

"I have just administered to potion, please?" Dumbledore gestured to the stool beside Harry's bedside. Standing the aged healer gazed deeply toward the young warrior maiden. Taking Harry's hand in hers Hermione allowed herself to hope.

"_I love him!_" Hermione thought, stated, believed truly and utterly, attempting to resonate as much of her love as possible into her stricken friend.

"_I love him, his family accept me!_"

Opening the connection Hermione shared with him Hermione felt her lover, close, closer than he ever had been since his affliction. Hermione held him, embrace him, felt the Horcrux slowing loosening its grip.

"_I love him! His family accept us! I want to wed him!_" Hermione felt rather than heard a scream, an agonised cry of death and the Horcrux erupted, relinquished its hold on her friend and love.

Harry,who had been nothing more than a vague shadow in her arms, slowly materialised before her. Around them so they returned to the Hall of Heroes, both she and Harry alone, together, standing upon the clear, white crystal at the centre of the rings of education.

"Her...? Hermione?" Harry's voice broke, his arms tightened around her. A bright smile crossed Hermione's lips as slowly she drew herself near to him.

"Yes Harry, I'm here." Hermione breathed.

Harry drew back, gazed deep into her deep brown eyes. His touch lifted to her chin caressed her lips with the tip of his thumb.

"Did you mean what you said? About your...?"

Hermione took away the space which existed between them, their lips meeting his in a passionate kiss. This was answer enough for him as their kiss deepened.

Gently the two lovers each felt the pull of consciousness enter them. They drew apart spiritually, felt their connection sever.

Physically Hermione opened her eyes. Harry lay still, his eyes open, bright and beautiful. He glanced towards her, felt a smile touch his lips. His hand was still held by her, drawing her from her seat, Harry drew Hermione once more into a true, deep kiss.


	16. Bonds of Love

Bonds of Love

The Elves, those who remained within the village of Hogsmeade, became rejoiced and energised at the news of Hermione and Harry's impending union-tie. Wed or union-ties were a most special and cherished moment amongst elven society. Though Humans believed a union-tie to be a bonding of loyalty and love, elves, owing to their incredibly long lives, would not accept a wed-tie unless they believed to have found a true soul mate.

Nerves, apprehensions and hesitations each roiled the guts of the two lovers as they sat in their adjoining preparation tents. The small alter set within the heart of Hogsmeade rested in wait.

Stationed within his own tent Harry sat before a large vanity mirror, a look of pain and annoyance evident in his visage as an elven maid tended to his hair.

"You ready for this, son?" so questioned Sirius of his Godson. Once more Harry grimaced as the elf tugged at a knot in his shoulder length mane of hair.

"Give it to me!" Harry snapped, his annoyance paramount as he wrestled the comb away from the startled elf's clutches. Slowly Harry began to work the golden comb through his hair working at the knots and tangles as he eyed Sirius standing behind him. Harry spoke to his Godfathers reflection.

"I do love her, Sirius," Harry stated firmly, he winced as another knot was forcefully untangled. "I just... never believed she would love me until..."

Harry's voice faded into nothingness. Sirius stepped forth and placed a hand upon his Godson's shoulder.

"She's a lucky girl, Harry." Sirius said gently, drawing a smile from Harry as he glanced towards his friend, mentor and Godfather.

A slight smile crossed Harry's lips as he stood from the mirror, his hair now fully combed, the elven maid standing ready with his bottle green dress robes. A slight queasiness filled his gut at the thought of his impending marriage but it was more happiness than fear. Harry opened his arms and allowed the elf to robe him.

Hermione retched into a small pale, her nerves and apprehensions far greater than anything she had ever experienced in her years of combat.

"_Please, let me duel a thousand Bellatrix Black's!_" Hermione thought heaving another torrent of sick as she struggled to breathe. The reasoning behind her nerves was not her fear of marriage or a unwillingness to forge a union with Harry; it was the thoughts of the encroaching evening and the consummation which was to follow.

"My lady? What ever is the matter?" questioned the elven female who was assigned to her needs. Hermione buried her head in her hands howling with frustration at her weakness and shame for her fear. The elf knelled beside Hermione enveloped the young warrior in a tender embrace, though confusion was evident in her eyes.

"My lady? Why are you so upset?" Hermione swallowed, realising that she way truly alone, it was here that she began to confide in the elf.

"I've never been with a man," Hermione stated truthfully. The elf blinked and smiled.

"You are a maiden?" inquired the elf as Hermione nodded.

"What if I displease him? What if he...? I'm scared." Hermione had been strong for so long, a woman of firm morals and iron will. Her love for Harry, Hermione had realised, had installed a sense of care and humanity within her that Hermione had long believed to have buried. A dark sense of joy, of wicked pleasure flitted to the edge of her consciousness. Hermione slammed up a mind block with strength and force, though she understood not where this sense had resonated from.

"The giving of maidenhood," Hermione heard the elf speaking, latched onto the beauty of her words. "This is the most beautiful gift a woman can present to their love mate. Your lover should be proud."

A slight smile crossed Hermione's lips at these words. Another wave of sick roiled from within her gut so she vomited once more into the pale.

AT the time of union so the elves began to sing. Such a beautiful and harmonious melody that both Harry and Hermione felt chills enter their forms with the beauty of the song. Harry stood before the entrance of his tent adorned in robes of the finest quality while his mate sat stationed before her mirror, fear and nerves paramount within each of them.

Elves drew aside the drape of their tents and together both Harry and Hermione stepped from within. The moment both Harry and Hermione set their gaze to each other each felt a wave of pleasure and happiness wash away any other emotion.

Hermione marvelled at Harry, his robes of glistening silk fitted to his frame, while Harry's eyes danced across Hermione's silver and gold strapless dress. Each looked so beauteous and together each felt the rising rhythm of their hearts as they drew near.

Both Harry and Hermione took each others hands. Slowly they began to walk towards the alter. Elven pipes, violins and flutes began an enchanting melody. Confusion settled over Harry and Hermione. Drawing upon the power of her Grace so Hermione came to understand. The song was a traditional elven song: _Canon in D_ and was amongst the elves more treasured compositions.

The two lovers settled before the alter where an elven priest garbed in white robes stood in waiting. He spoke, both in elven and common tongue, speaking of the unity of love, of Harry and Hermione's happiness and eternal peace. Bands of glistening golden thread were bound about their hands. Harry and Hermione felt a fusion, of a spiritual bond greater than the Graces as their vowels were sworn. Slowly they drew near to each other, their lips met in a soft, gentle kiss as, with this final acceptance the village erupted into applause.


	17. Gifts and Consummation

Gifts and Consummation

The celebration for Harry and Hermione's union-tie lasted long into the night. Elves presented gifts of gold, magical jewels known as Lantheite: precious stones, augmented with a wealth of magical and physical energy and other beauteous items.

From Albus Dumbledore Harry was presented a broad leather belt consisting of five differing jewels: Ruby, Diamond, Amethyst, Sapphire and Emerald.

To Hermione, presented by Athtar chieftain of Hogsmeade a single golden ring inscribed with the elven script. Hermione, who was educated both by study and her Grace, could not understand the letters and wording upon her ring. When she inquired of Athtar of its meaning behind the words all he would say was: "For your happiness."

Songs were sung both elven and human and words of congratulations were past. This jubilation filled the hearts of the fear stricken residents of Hogsmeade, chasing away any sense of evil or danger that mite exist beyond the new Potter's wed-tie celebration.

Finally, with the hour venturing deep so both man and wife bayed farewell to their well-wishers. Hand in hand Harry led Hermione up the oaken staircase of the tavern towards the best bedroom, a place reserved for them owing to this special day. Even though the inn of Hogsmeade was not going to be their new home, when they came to the threshold of their room Harry hoisted his new wife into his arms and carried her into the room.

Hermione playfully, though unnecessarily, dipped her head so as to avoid the door frame. Down in the saloon rapt applause and cheer sounded at the new wed-ties commitment. When at last the door was closed Harry lowered Hermione gently to the large honeymoon bed, sheets of silk and cotton strew in virgin white ready for their consummation. The room was vast, lit by the gentle light of a dozen small candles creating an intimate, ethereal ambiance. Harry gazed down upon his new wife, gaze filled with emotion. Softly his touch came to the bare skin of her sword arm.

Hermione shivered, biting her lower lip slightly. The action was innocent, incredibly sexy, drawing a groan of passion from her lover.

"I love you, Hermione." Harry breathed, his gaze locked with hers as he leaned over her. Hermione reached forth, caressed his fetching visage, a look of longing evident in her eyes. The young woman swallowed, their lips touching chastely.

"I love you, Harry." Harry breathed his warm breath teasing the skin of her cheek. Harry slowly lowered his lips to hers, once more they shared a kiss, once, twice, their passion began to grow. Together each felt their core flood with butterflies, in unison both hearts began an intense cadence deep within them, filling their bodies with emotion, blood began to flame.

Once more Harry's touch came to Hermione's bare sword arm, caressed her shoulder. Her arms, though some would say were to muscular for a lady, to Harry they were fair, strong, so utterly perfect.

Gingerly Harry began to press his weight upon her, pressing her deeper into the bed as his self came to lay beside her, her body beneath his as his touch began to grow more adventurous. Gently Harry hand cupped one of her fine, small breasts. His new wife moaned, hands drifting to the rear of her garb, attempting to unfasten the lace thongs which secured her dress. Harry assisted, slowly, gently her body was unveiled.

Harry drew back from their kiss, observed her form. Though fit and fantastically healthy Hermione's body was not without its flaws. A number of scars, some deep, others minor, criss-crossed her frame, stomach, chest. Gently, curiously Harry touch came too one of the more deeper, purple wounds.

"How came you by this?" Harry breathed, his question one of wonder as he observed her body. Hermione blinked felt his hand caress the affliction.

"I was young, in Tamas protégées' of the Rearing sustain wounds from whip or blade if they are caught stealing." Hermione confession stunned her startled husband. Hermione smiled lightly.

"I am not a saint, my love, I hope you understand that." Harry smiled, he chuckled.

"I wouldn't have you any other way." once more Harry's lips claimed hers.

Slowly, both Husband and Wife fully unclothed, Harry strong, firm and pure, Hermione toned, marred and wanting. Harry's touch slowly slid to Hermione's most intimate area, Hermione flinched as slowly he put his finger inside her. His touch was gentle, intimate, eyes fixed on each other.

"I've... I've never been with a woman." Harry confessed, the confession helping to ease some of the tension which had been building within her. Hermione's eyes brightened, she smiled.

"Nor I a man." her legs slowly opened, accepting, wanting. Gently, clumsily drew between her legs. Together both Harry and Hermione's breathing began to hitch. She was moist with need, slowly Harry entered her. A sharp pinch of pain tore through his lady love. Hermione moaned as he virginity was claimed. Together both husband and wife settled into the art of lovemaking.


	18. Gift of Love

Gift of Life

The soft, gentle hue of winter sun sifted into the honeymoon chamber of The Three Broomsticks inn.

Harry James Potter stirred slightly from slumber, the feel of another's tender embrace bringing a slight smile to his lips. His new lady wife lay next to him, body pressed intimately to his.

The feel of her bare, perky breasts nestled against him, the sensation of her body against his did stir within the young man feelings of desire which were now truly his too feel.

Gently, so as not to rouse his lover, Harry shifted in Hermione's embrace. Her wealth of chestnut toned tresses lay lightly across her face. Tenderly Harry's touch came to her cheek, brushed aside the drape of hair so as to fully observe the beauty of her visage.

His kiss came to her brow, Hermione stirred slightly felt a gentle breath exhale from her lungs. A wicked smile crossed Harry's lips as his touch began to explore the naked delights of her body.

His lips lowered to her neck, gently he began to kiss, nip, suck at the tender flesh as his fingers found the delights of her curl guarded treasure.

Harry softly began to tease the little nib she had informed him of, herself learning his body and delights as he did hers. Gingerly Harry felt her sex moisten. With tenderness Harry's fingers entered her.

Hermione moaned in sleep, her hips instinctively beginning to buck with excitement. Harry smiled as with the stimulation of his fingers so he began to lower himself down his lady loves frame, his tongue sliding down her strong, toned form until he nestled against her moist sex.

Harry tasted her, no necter ever did taste as sweet. Her scent was intoxicating her essence delightful. Gently Hermione began to stir. Her eyes opened slowly, rolled back into their depths, mad with feral lust as she unleashed a deep, throaty moan.

"By the gods...!" Hermione moaned her hands drifting down to sift through her lovers wealth of dark hair.

With a smile so Harry entered his lady love once more, drawing her over the edge. Still young, still inexpreanced so the feel of her drew him over the edge with ease as Harry flooded her innards with his essence in the hope that the gods would bless their union ever greater.

Harry settled above her, his length still thrust deep within her. together they fell to kisses and tender love. It wasn't long till he rose once more and Hermione smiled secretly, knowing it was her that incited this animal within her gentle lover.

They fell to love making once again, long into the early morn Hermione only hoped as she felt his seed within her that it would quicken in the hope that she bore him a child. Their lips met once more as together they untangled from each other, bodies sore and aching and readied themselves for the coming adventure.


End file.
